


War

by Guede



Series: War [1]
Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Battle, Betrayal, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ensemble Cast, F/F, Getting to Know Each Other, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Irony, M/M, Military, Politics, Pre-Canon, Religious Conflict, Secret Relationship, Sieges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-20 05:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22076824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: There is no crucible for a man's character like that of war. One campaign in the Roman province of Britain will have lasting repercussions for the futures of all involved.
Relationships: Arthur Castus/Lancelot, Bors/Vanora (King Arthur 2004), Dinadan/Tristan (Arthurian), Galahad/Gawain (King Arthur 2004)
Series: War [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589134
Comments: 52
Kudos: 16





	1. News

**Author's Note:**

> Set a few years before the start of the movie. Originally written and posted to LJ in 2005.

The rider came in just before dawn.

His leathers were filthy with mud and dried gore that the sentries, high up in their towers, could smell as clearly as they could the ale on their own breath. They let him pass with only a minimum of challenges, for it was clear he brought urgent news, and then they turned their faces back to the vast black fringe of forest on the horizon. The harshness of Roman discipline ensured that they did not speculate aloud between themselves, but their minds were neither on the beauty of the misty sunrise, nor on the by-now familiar menace of the treeline beyond the Wall.

* * *

Arthur was in the act of sitting up when the door burst open. He stiffened and shoved his hand down, hastily rumpling the sheets back over himself, while his other hand went out for Excalibur, leaning against the bed. “Who goes—”

“Still abed? I thought you were famous for rising early,” Lucius said, voice heavy with mockery. The other officer was already in armor, and had his pack hanging from one shoulder as if it were filled with rocks. “Courier’s in. Damned Britons revolted, burned a town. They’re massing upriver; get your men ready to ride. Then get yourself to the general’s quarters.”

Infantry and cavalry never were very friendly with each other, but for the moment, Arthur chose to ignore the fact that he nominally outranked Lucius. There wasn’t any point in rising to the bait. “Thank you. I’ll be there.”

“Good. Wouldn’t do to have the prodigy missing.” With that Parthian shot, Lucius started to swing himself out of the door. But then he paused and glanced back, his long thin lips first frowning, then smirking. “A word of advice—you might want to set up your mistress somewhere outside of the barracks.”

As the other man finally departed, Arthur gritted his teeth and dragged his fingers from Excalibur. Then he sighed and rose, wrapping a blanket around him as he went to shut the door. It was barely into campaigning season, so the air was still chilly enough to steal one’s breath with icy claws.

Behind him, Lancelot threw off the rest of the blankets and sat up, eyes laughing. “I suppose ‘mistress’ is better than ‘whore.’”

“If you say so.” Arthur threw the bolt, wishing he could use it more often. The disadvantage of rank was that, if he was going to be a good officer, he had to be accessible at all hours. The higher he rose, the less privacy he had, and the more he dreamed of it. “Get dressed.”

He said that much more curtly than he’d meant to. In his defense, news of a Woad uprising this early in the year didn’t bode well at all; last year’s campaign had been aimed at crushing the insurrection for good, and here it was, seemingly fresh as ever. Ready to eat up more of Arthur’s men and tear to pieces more of his memories of his mother’s people.

But one look at Lancelot’s face, smooth handsome features going so easily from amusement to hard sarcasm, told Arthur it was too late to explain anything. Or to even apologize, and one was owed. It was grossly unfair for the Sarmatians to even be here, let alone have to suffer the temper of their newly-promoted, preoccupied commander. Arthur still tried. “Lancelot…”

“You’d rather I had left right afterward.” The other man turned away and scooped up his clothes from a chair, which thankfully hadn’t been in view of Lucius. 

Then again, that particular officer wasn’t especially observant or smart, sharp as his tongue was. While Arthur would like to think that they’d always be so fortunate, he knew better. “It has nothing to do with what I want. But the Romans aren’t quite so relaxed about their morals, and they’re already watching me closely because—”

“And you favor me so much anyway. I have ears, Arthur. I can hear. And I’m not some callow youth that has to be taught about the hypocrisies of society.” Lancelot threw on his clothes with quick, tense jerks that had him dressed in less than a minute. He bent down to pluck Arthur’s cloak from a chair, then flung it at Arthur hard enough for the hem to sting as it slapped Arthur’s arms. “It’s a wonder you like Romans so much when they frown on something you very definitely enjoy. Unless some other man happened to be fucking me into the ground last night.”

“Lancelot, for God’s sake—” Arthur lunged for the other man, but Lancelot deftly evaded him and slammed open the bolt. Then he opened the door and slipped out while Arthur was scrambling to dress himself.

As soon as he could, Arthur followed, but naturally Lancelot wasn’t anywhere in sight. And there was the first campaign of the year for which he needed to prepare, which meant he most likely wouldn’t catch up with Lancelot till late morning. By then, the other man might have cooled off, but more likely was that he would’ve spent the time perfecting his argument.

Arthur didn’t sigh as he ducked back into his room. He lost count of the number of times he broke the third commandment while he strapped on his sword, but it hardly mattered since he didn’t have time for forgiveness. Another season of shattering the sixth commandment awaited.

* * *

Thankfully, the first man Lancelot ran into at the stables was Gawain, who was patient and calm and knew better than to interrupt Lancelot’s snarling. After all of that had been worked out of Lancelot’s system, he hefted a saddle onto his shoulder and redirected himself to the knights’ barracks.

“So…” Gawain began, hurrying after him.

“A wonderful start to the year—Woad rebellion upriver. Now help me wake up everyone.” And wasn’t he a helpful little knight, Lancelot savagely thought. First laying into Arthur, which certainly wasn’t going to help the deep lines carving ever deeper into Arthur’s face, and then waking all the others up for another plunge into blood and guts and steel.

All right, he didn’t feel very guilty about the waking-up part; it came with the territory, after all. But he still failed to see why he should appreciate the territory, given that the Romans had made him exchange wide plains for a miserable little island in the grips of an endlessly miserable war. The few bright spots he had were like those strange green wisps that rose from the swamps, always flashing out of reach—either because of him, or because of Arthur.

Damn the man. Lancelot did understand, and he didn’t want the bastard Romans prying any further into his life than Arthur did; he might give them the services of his sword, but he wasn’t there for their amusement as well. But skulking around and looking nervy as a new colt as Arthur seemed to like doing grated on Lancelot. It was too close to denial when only hiding was necessary. And Arthur would deny this and that and—Lancelot nearly tripped over a knight who hadn’t quite made it back to his cot before passing out. With more than a little glee, he dropped Bors’ saddle on his head. “Rise and shine! Your duty calls!”

“Yarrar—you damned—what?” Bors leaped to his feet and, blinded by the saddle, nearly ran Gawain into a door. Then he apparently remembered that chances of proper turnabout were greatly increased if he could see his opponent and took off the saddle. “Gawain?”

“No, him,” Gawain sighed.

Lancelot assumed the man was pointing at him, but by then he had already banged the doors of half the corridor. Behind, he could hear Gawain starting on the doors on the other side, so Lancelot sped up and rounded the corner before Bors could catch anything resembling wits. By doing so, he nearly smacked into a knight he didn’t quite recognize.

Spitting oaths, he stumbled back a pace. “Well, you’re up early. Good. Get your horse packed for campaign; rations will be issued once everyone’s assembled on the parade grounds.”

He didn’t wait to hear an answer, but instead moved around and continued down the hall, spreading the good news as he went. His knuckles were going to be sore—were already sore, in fact, but that was just as well. It would distract him from thinking on the ache between his legs, or the one in his throat.

Everyone thought he was a proud bastard, and they were right. Arthur made a mission out of bending his head, but Lancelot had a better sense of himself than that. Though it was cold, walking down these corridors and watching the sleepiness in men’s faces turn to resignation, frustration, fear. And it’d been warm, curling up by Arthur’s side.

* * *

The man by whom Lancelot had brushed turned to sweep his oddly intense stare over the halls and after him. Then he seemed to smile very slightly and spun back to greet Gawain. “So that’s Lancelot.”

“Yes…you don’t—oh, you’re one of the knights they just brought up from the other garrisons.” Gawain temporarily stopped banging doors to take in the newcomer. Down the hall, Bors was doing a fine job of bellowing out the explanation for the rude awakening, so Gawain could spare a moment.

And he’d better, since he’d never seen a member of this tribe among the cavalry before. Facial markings, armor that was slightly more fitted at the waist than the usual, and what looked like a curved sword. The man himself was about Gawain’s age, with an aloof demeanor that probably irritated most people. “I am,” he acknowledged. “They’re consolidating units as the officers die or transfer.”

“Fucking shame they can’t send you along with your officers,” Agravaine growled, stumbling half-dressed from his room. He yanked his shirt all the way onto his shoulders as he attempted to glower the newcomer into shrinking. It didn’t work, partly because Agravaine’s puffy red eyes made him look quite pathetic, but Gawain suspected that the new knight wasn’t intimidated by much, anyway. “Mother-killing son of a bitch.”

“You would know,” Lancelot snorted, coming back down. When Agravaine whirled on him, he slowed just enough to deliver a leveling stare. “Shut it, Agravaine. We’re all being equally fucked by the Romans without your pretty self helping. You and your gear, in the stable in two minutes, or you’re answering to me.”

There was a reason Gawain hadn’t ever seen this man’s tribe here before. Displaced they might be, but the old grudges and tribal feuds hadn’t been left behind in Sarmatia. Among their peoples, raiding and fighting on horseback was a profession they’d perfected on and amongst themselves before exporting it elsewhere.

Not that Gawain particularly cared about that; as Lancelot had said, they were all in the same grinding trap, and there was no point in such petty quarrels. As long as he didn’t see someone he knew had killed a relative of his, he wasn’t going to bother. “Agravaine’s a mean drunk. He’s always like that.”

That wasn’t a common attitude, so the surprise in the newcomer’s face was understandable. The emotion, however, didn’t last long, so apparently the stories about an especially stoic tribe were true. “I see. And Lancelot?”

Lancelot was a long, long story that was easier to watch than to tell. He had the same attitude about intertribal grudges as Gawain, but more likely his reasons were that if they weren’t about him, he didn’t care. Even if he’d stayed in Sarmatia, he probably would’ve kept the same opinion.

So Gawain shrugged. “He’s who he is. I’m Gawain, by the way.”

“Tristan.” The man started to say something else, but something stirred at the end of the hall—another knight ducking in to wave at Tristan. He made a quick nod to Gawain and passed by, just a little less rudely than Lancelot had gone by him.

The second man, who appeared to be of Tristan’s cohort, greeted him with a broad smile and an arm around his shoulders. They went off in the direction of the stables, heads bent together like very close friends.

A familiar grunt and elbow in Gawain’s side announced Galahad, who had finally dragged himself out of bed. “Adorable,” he drawled, sarcasm thick as honey on the back of a spoon. “Someone might want to mention that the Romans and Christians don’t approve.”

Gawain glanced right and left, saw no one, and then grabbed Galahad by the arm, yanking him back to their room. “You’re in no position to talk. And start packing. We’re probably going to leave before midday meal.”


	2. Preparations

To Arthur’s surprise, the scout who’d brought in the initial report turned out to be Sarmatian. He hadn’t thought any cavalry had been posted that far beyond the wall; it was thick forest there, hardly ideal ground for mounted soldiers. Then again, the Romans were very efficient at squeezing new uses out of men, so perhaps they’d come up with a new duty

And he was thinking like Lancelot. Arthur nearly grimaced, turned it into a sour smile, and then just failed to hide that in time. He quickly smoothed out his face, but Ambrosius was already turning towards him. “Artorius? Did you have a suggestion?”

Caught off-guard, Arthur resisted the urge to look away, because he knew that all he’d see would be the eyes of his colleagues. Some would be merely curious, a few sympathetic, but the majority would be waiting for him to trip up like ravens for fresh carrion. His eye happened to alight on the map, and suddenly a thought clicked together. “It sounds like they’re following the river, but they’ll have to cross eventually. Probably here—” he pointed “—this is the ford nearest a town. Normally it wouldn’t be crossable till March, but the waters are unusually low this year.”

“Going for the easy plunder,” snorted Paullus. He rocked back on his heels to take in the rest of the papers littering the general’s table. “Only a day’s march from here, but no garrison there so they could escape if they were quick enough—Castus is right. And we can’t fortify the place in time, so either we take them beforehand, or after they’ve sated themselves with looting.”

“Before would be better,” Arthur put in, concerned at the reluctance in the other man’s voice. No garrison in these parts meant no sizable population of Romans or allies, and that meant no importance. Which for most translated to acceptable sacrifice. “They’ve already razed two towns. Letting them have another would damage morale.”

Eyebrows raised, Lucius leaned over to slowly, derisively look over Arthur. “And where do you propose battle? The nearest good field’s ten miles away.”

“I don’t recall that _Artorius Castus_ was the one in charge of that,” Ambrosius acidly interrupted. He seemed to have taken Arthur’s parted lips for the beginnings of presumptiveness, since he glared equally at the both of them. Arthur quickly subsided, but Lucius shot him one last glower before stepping back.

It was beyond Arthur why the other man was so hostile. Infantry-cavalry rivalry aside, Lucius had been relatively polite up until the present year, but now he almost seemed ready to challenge Arthur to a duel. The man was a career soldier, caring little about anything except the business—and to him it was that and no more—of war, so it didn’t seem as if Arthur could’ve offended him in any way.

Possibly Lancelot could’ve explained, since the man was amazingly well-versed in garrison gossip and had an uncanny ability to assess personalities, but currently Arthur wasn’t in a position to ask. It would have to wait.

“Straightforward fights never seem to work with these people anyway,” Ambrosius went on. He swept all the clutter off of the map and respread it so all the officers could view its spare black lines and tiny perfect gilt lettering; it must have cost a fortune to have made. “But that town’s essential to controlling the river—I have no idea why it wasn’t fortified before, but it’ll have to be now. Lucius, you’re in charge of setting up the garrison. Paullus, Artorius, you’ll cross the river here and then march up to engage them on the other side. I’ll take my forces up and around, and we’ll crush them between us.”

“Cross the river…here?” Paullus blinked twice in disbelief.

Ambrosius, however, wasn’t in a mood for coddling. Good general, decent man, but he could be short-tempered when taken by surprise. Very much an officer that relied more on superior organization and attention to detail than one that had any real military genius. And he knew it, so he was slightly paranoid about the men who did have it. Like Paullus. “Yes, cross the river. If you absolutely have to, you can use Castus’ ford for retreat. If I may remind you, officers, we have tax assessors due to go through soon. I want as little farming land ravaged as possible. It’s the Woads’ damned war; keep it on their lands.”

And that was that, though Paullus patently wasn’t happy and neither was Arthur, despite his determinedly shut mouth.

“Fucking marvelous,” Paullus snarled, walking alongside Arthur as they emptied out of the room. “You notice he said nothing about how we’re supposed to secure a supply line through Woad territory.”

“Lucius should be able to handle that. He can funnel supplies over the ford.” The Sarmatian scout, who’d been standing quietly in the corner, was discreetly following Arthur without anyone ordering him to. While Arthur wasn’t quite as blind as Lancelot thought, he also wasn’t given to overweening pride in himself and therefore didn’t assume it was his presence that had drawn the man. He was swarthier than the other officers, and the only cavalry officer in the room, so he had probably stuck out like blood on snow.

Nevertheless, if the man was trailing him instead of heading for food, water, or surgeon, then that meant some kind of private conversation was coming. Arthur started to cast about for ways to detach from Paullus.

Meanwhile, the other man was continuing to complain, albeit in a lower tone. “Don’t tell me you trust Lucius to keep us in supplies. That whoreson couldn’t manage a brothel if they gave him—”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Lucius snapped, striding past them. “Artorius’ precious knights are all barbarians, after all. Great hunters, the lot of them.”

Arthur remembered curling his fingers so his nails slashed into his palms. He slowed, stopped, and breathed until his vision was no longer tinted red.

“As I said,” Paullus grumbled, making rude gestures at Lucius’ back. “Damned if I know what’s going on with him. Fuck, I thought he was starting to get fond of Britain.”

It turned out that Arthur had paused beside a crossroads, one of which paths would lead to the stables. He carefully uncurled his hands and glanced over the damage, then wiped off the little beads of blood on his legs. There was something about the way Paullus said that…a trace of lascivious mockery, perhaps. “What do you mean?”

Frustratingly, Paullus chose this moment to be tactful. He shrugged and waved it off, apparently seeing someone else he needed to speak to. “Rumors, I think. I won’t waste your time on them.”

Time, time, time. There never seemed to be enough, and the responsibilities simply kept mounting. But Arthur swallowed and took it, because he couldn’t do anything else and still sleep at night. “See you on the march.”

“Vale,” Paullus replied, spinning on a heel and striding off.

A brisk, commonsensical man, who lived only for the next battle, but who didn’t include with that the ambition Arthur suspected was eating away at Lucius. He made no secret of his preference for campaigning in the east, where the lands were rich with gold and silver and jewels, but he was willing to fight for his transfer the honorable way: winning enough battlefield victories to earn a right to choose his next post.

Things could be a little worse, Arthur thought, trying to console himself. At least it was Paullus and not Lucius that was partnering him in the field. And truthfully, they could scavenge if they absolutely had to. Though Arthur hoped not, because to feed the horses properly they’d need hay, and if the hay didn’t come from the Romans it’d have to be seized from the Woads. Burning farmhouses, even when justified, always reminded Arthur of his mother.

“You are…Arthur, sir?”

Startled, Arthur almost went for his sword, but at the last moment remembered and diverted his hand to adjusting his cloak. He turned all the way around and greeted the Sarmatian with as pleasant an expression as he could manage. “I would be. And you?”

“Dagonet, sir.” The other man, huge by anyone’s standards, fell easily into step with Arthur as they headed for the stables. When Arthur offered him a flask of water, he seemed surprised by the gesture, but readily accepted. Then he politely wiped off the rim before handing it back. “I’m not a scout,” he said, as calmly and distinctly as a priest carefully pronouncing vows. “I’m the last survivor of a cavalry detachment sent upriver to guard an officer meeting with the Woads.”

Arthur had to stop again. He hastily pulled the other man out of the main road into a deserted alley, then looked about for any possible eavesdroppers. “You swear that this is the truth?”

“I swear it on my horse’s neck. I don’t lie, sir.” And there was no falsehood in Dagonet’s face.

Consequently, Arthur had a potential internal disaster on his hands. He thought through his options, then concluded he didn’t know quite enough to make a decision. “Have you informed Ambrosius?”

“No. It…didn’t look like it was official orders they were carrying out, sir.” Dagonet seemed to perfectly understand the gravity of what he was saying, because his tone was somber, but his eyes were clear and completely focused on Arthur.

“Call me Arthur. What was the officer’s name?” Ambrosius would probably have to be told something at some point, but when would depend on the rest of the story. If there was perfidy of any kind, the Woads would waste no time in spreading the tale as evidence of Roman corruption.

Before he answered, Dagonet deliberately looked down the alley at nothing. Merely an empty crossing-point, and beyond, another empty side-road. “Marcus Aemilius Lepidus.”

A minor infantry officer, banished to a small, exposed garrison due to suspicions of intrigue against Ambrosius. He’d been reported killed by the rebels, but in such a way that everyone assumed he’d been in his garrison. Caught while sleeping, which was marginally better than cut down while conducting secret talks with the enemy. “Why are you telling me, and not Ambrosius?”

“Because you have a reputation as a fair man among the cavalrymen. No one I’ve met knew much of Ambrosius,” Dagonet replied. “Arthur.”

It might have simplified matters if that hadn’t been so. On the other hand, Ambrosius might not be as disposed to believe the testimony of a common soldier as Arthur was, so Dagonet probably just wanted to ensure he was believed. And Arthur did, which left him with an impending mess. Especially—he suddenly realized that Dagonet had been gazing at the way Lucius had gone. And unlike Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, Lucius had too many high connections to be lightly set aside.

“Keep silent for now,” he finally said. “I may call on you to repeat your story, but later. Come--you look like you could use a good meal before we march.”

* * *

Say what they will, but no one could say that Lancelot couldn’t organize men as well as lead them. A quarter-hour before Arthur showed, he had all the knights packed, properly victualed, and lined up on the parade ground in marching order.

Or so he thought, the preening cock. Galahad finished going down the roster list, then passed it over to the other man. “All accounted for, plus one redheaded tavern-keeper.”

Vanora was in the process of giving Bors one deep, tongue-filled kiss for every child they currently had, so he wouldn’t forget his obligations. Lancelot looked torn between rolling his eyes and staring at the way Vanora’s skirts clung to her ample yet shapely behind, like the other men were. “Good.”

“And everyone has eight days’ worth of rations, and all their gear, and they’re mostly sober, though they all would like to string you up for touching off their hang-overs,” Galahad muttered, slouching back in the saddle. True, Lancelot was responsible for issuing general orders, but who did he make do the dirty work of getting last-minute replacement knives, shoes, arrows and so on? Galahad. Gawain got to inspect the horses for travel-readiness, and Lancelot got to stand in one place and snarl at people. 

The only thing Galahad could say was that at least Lancelot had taken on the haggling for supplies himself, and truthfully, he probably was the best-suited for cutting those snotty officers down to their boot-tops. Especially when he was in a mood.

“Good,” Lancelot repeated, looking a bit happier. From the looks of it, he was dying for a fight.

“Why do I have to help with this again? I don’t even get a rank.” Out of the corner of his eye, Galahad could see a red cloak approaching: Arthur. He was about to tell Lancelot and see what kind of reaction he received, but Gawain rode up and interrupted.

“Because you read better than I do. Though I’ll never understand that, considering how much trouble it took to get you to actually sit down and learn,” Gawain laughed, turning his horse to back in between Galahad and Perceval.

Shrugging, Perceval twisted to give Gawain a strangely cool look. “Well, I can’t blame him. What use is there for reading? You can’t do it and ride at the same time.”

“No, but you can read the signs that say which door’s the shitpile and which is the bath-house,” Galahad snapped, leaning over to catch the man’s eye. As annoyed as he was with Gawain right now, he wasn’t about to let some jumped-up bastard of a troop leader look down his snub nose at Gawain. Especially since Perceval had a working nose and _still_ couldn’t figure out where to piss and where to wash.

Irritatingly enough, all that accomplished was a confused look from Gawain and Perceval transferring his icy gaze from Gawain to Galahad. Then he stared past them at the newest troop. Galahad suddenly noticed that the knights next to it had edged away till there was about a foot of separation between them.

So did Lancelot. “Urien! Damn it, make your troop hold line! You’re more likely to catch something from that little blonde of yours than from the other knights!”

“He’s in a yelling mood today,” Gawain observed under his breath, tipping an amused, irked glance at Galahad.

“What’s wrong with that troop?” Galahad hissed back, curiously watching the byplay as Urien’s men warily moved back while the new knights looked…supercilious? The man that had talked to Gawain earlier in the morning was in the front line, expression blank as a freshly-cleaned sheet, yet somehow emanating a sardonic kind of humor.

Gawain blinked, seemed about to say something insulting, and then thought better of it. Sadly, Lancelot was quicker with his tongue. “You really did come from a backward village, didn’t you? I thought you would’ve at least heard stories about that bizarre tribe from the far east.”

“Oh, those—they’re them?” Galahad straightened up and took a closer look at the heartless monsters, famed trackers, brutal mother-killers or plain dishonorable thieves, depending on who one asked. The worst stories came from the tribes closest to that one, so he assumed they at least must have been slightly better at raiding than their neighbors. “I thought they’d be taller. Giants.”

“Riding what? Elephants on the steppes?” Of course, neither Lancelot nor Galahad actually knew what an elephant was, besides it being huge and having something to do with ivory, but that didn’t stop the other man from being vitriolic. Even Perceval seemed taken aback by Lancelot’s venom.

At that moment, Arthur walked up, leading a man that was more like what Galahad had imagined. “Dagonet, these are the rest of the knights here. Lancelot’s my second-in-command, and…I think you’d do best in Bedivere’s troop. Bedivere! Bors! Get this man set; he’s the one who escaped the slaughter up-river.”

As they’d been quarreling just before Arthur had come, Galahad was still partially watching Lancelot, and it was an interesting view. First the man compressed his lips till they were white with pressure, then slipped the bottom one beneath his teeth and chewed on it like a dog with a soup bone. And all the while, he was staring at Arthur like something inside of him was about to burst open his skin and pounce on the other man.

It was a wonder they managed to be as discreet as they were. Then again, some people just didn’t have eyes; from the way Bedivere talked and moved around Arthur, he had no idea about the underlying tension, but Bors flicked a few worried glances between his commander and Lancelot. At the edge of the grounds, Vanora was turning to give her man one last look, and she went on to stay and wait for the customary speech as well.

Dagonet was quickly swept into the back ranks to be outfitted with everything he’d need—and for once, Galahad wasn’t in charge of that—while Arthur mounted his horse, which Lancelot had somehow found the time and willingness to tack up and lead out. Funny how Lancelot seemed to make more considerate gestures when he was upset than when he was enjoying himself.

“Knights,” Arthur said, voice now deep and resonant so it’d reach the last rank. Galahad sat back and waited for the speech.

“You come from many tribes, but never forget that you are all knights of Sarmatia. Great warriors, great men, regardless of your origins, because a man is what he makes of himself. Think before you raise your sword, see that it never rusts in its scabbard, and help your neighbor to stand with you. You have only a few years of service left; don’t throw your life away now.”

“Our campaign is upriver, where the Woads have rebelled and overthrown two of the local garrisons. It’s a substantial uprising, but localized; our duty is to contain it and then stomp it out. No different from tending a campfire.” A little forced, but most of the men laughed. “I’ve led most of you for years now, and I ask you to trust in that history together. For those of you that do not know me, I am Artorius Castus, also called Arthur. Look at the men beside you—I’ve led them into and out of danger. Believe in their presence here and now, and trust that I will treat you the same.”

It was a bit subdued, even for Arthur, who usually managed a startling passion for his pre-campaign speeches. And notably, he hadn’t said a single concrete detail about the actual plan of attack.

“This is not good,” Galahad whispered.

“Look at their faces,” Gawain replied, nodding at the assembled knights. “They don’t think so.”

Lancelot was looking regal yet demure, the perfect subordinate, but the side of his mouth moved just a little. “That’s because they don’t have to.”

Then he wheeled his horse and trotted it up to Arthur, who was turning so he could lead them all out the gate whenever Dagonet was mounted. Gawain merely raised an eyebrow, but Perceval rocked back and rubbed at his nose, expression now worried. “First that lot joining us, and now Lancelot’s a little more than insulted by something. Galahad, you might be right.”

* * *

Good speech aside, Arthur was seriously worried about something. For a moment, Lancelot forgot about their argument and spurred forward, coming up to Arthur’s right side. But then Arthur turned and the naked relief on the man’s face surprised even Lancelot, since usually Arthur saved the demonstrative looks for when in private. Lancelot found himself instinctively slowing his horse, and Arthur, jaw clenching, closed up again.

Damn it. “What?” Lancelot tersely asked, finally settling beside the other man.

“Ambrosius should be by soon. Then we’ll leave.” Arthur leaned back to stare at the sky, as if he’d be able to read an answer there.

“Which is perfectly routine and doesn’t explain your face.” Hopefully the man would remember they had to work together, if nothing else. That was about the only thing still holding back Lancelot’s temper.

Amazingly enough, Arthur seemed to catch on. Either that or he was being his usual excessively polite self, but Lancelot didn’t feel like making himself more irritated, so he tried not to think on it.

“The rebellion might not have been spontaneous,” Arthur murmured. He closed his eyes and rolled back his shoulders slow and jerky, like they were paining him, and they probably were given all the burdens he laid on them. Then he opened his eyes and directed a narrow, oddly angry look past the buildings towards the sound of hundreds of boots marching in unison. “Dagonet says the garrison commander, Lepidus—”

“Even dead the man’s causing trouble,” Lancelot observed. While he didn’t see much of the strife that went on above him, he could reconstruct the fights well enough from the marks they left on Arthur.

The other man momentarily smiled in bittersweet agreement. “He was meeting with the Woads. And, if I’m reading things right, Lucius may have had a hand in it as well.”

“You know, I never liked that man, either.” Ambrosius on his high-stepping Italian stallion was just emerging from the bend in the road. Ranging around his infantry was about a third of the Sarmatians plus the few Gallic cavalrymen that hadn’t been transferred to the continent, led by Gorlois, who managed a covert salute to Arthur as he passed. He then gave Lancelot a hard stare; the man seemed to think that, because he happened to have seen Arthur’s father once, that gave him a right to act as a stand-in for Uther. As if Arthur wasn’t a grown man in his own right.

Even if sometimes he himself didn’t seem to realize that. The young thought they were invincible, but the old merely knew that they were strong, and that they would fail sooner or later. Arthur, on the other hand, still thought he was many instead of being only a single man like everyone else. It got him more hurts than he deserved, and it made Lancelot bite down on his lip till the blood welled out whenever Arthur went ahead of him.

As he was doing now, trotting to meet Ambrosius, who had briefly peeled away from his army. They held a low, grim conversation while Lucius, deliberately slowing his passage through the gate, watched them with vulture’s eyes. Paullus’ men came next, which meant Lancelot was supposed to signal for the knights to wheel to either side of the infantry column, but he hung back as long as he could to wait for Arthur. In the end, however, he couldn’t wait any longer and so he raised his arm.

“What, too early for the lot of you? Get a move on,” Paullus snapped, fiddling with his reins. Likewise, his horse seemed anxious to dance its way out of the garrison.

According to Arthur, Paullus wasn’t bad as far as foot-sloggers went, but from where Lancelot was sitting, he couldn’t see it. That was a beautiful stallion, and the man was going to ruin it before the year was out.

“Apologies. Ambrosius had a few last instructions,” Arthur interrupted, coming up from behind. In marked contrast to the other officer, he smoothly cut between Paullus and Lancelot and skillfully shouldered Paullus off to the side, where his atrocious riding wouldn’t be quite so visible to the horsemen.

Which left Lancelot to fall back and stew, though rationally, he knew it wasn’t exactly fair to Arthur. Nevertheless, his teeth were gritted and his hands were white-knuckled on the reins as he slowed to let the others catch up.

“So? What news?” Perceval, miraculously enough, had managed to exchange glowering at the new knights to try stripping information out of Lancelot with his eyes alone. “Do you know where we’re going?”

“To kill some misbehaving Britons,” Lancelot drawled, forcing his fingers to relax. He raked a hand through his hair, searching for whatever was suddenly itching at his hair, and then he pulled out a…feather.

Galahad made a tiny impressed noise he hadn’t produced since he was twelve. As it turned out, he was staring at one of the leaders in the latest addition to their forces, who’d apparently just plucked a hawk from the air.

“Isn’t that the man that I almost ran over this morning?” Lancelot squinted against the sun’s glare, which was coming over from that side.

“Name’s Tristan,” Gawain helpfully informed, though he was somewhat distracted by the sight of a marveling Galahad. As Lancelot watched in no small amusement, Gawain leaned over and whispered something in Galahad’s ear that led to Galahad whacking him hard on the shoulder. Then Galahad spurred up in a huff, leaving Gawain to choke back both half-hearted apology and a hearty bark of laughter.

In exchange, Arthur came back to sweep his eyes over the passing knights and legionaries, searching for something. He didn’t find it, and the shadows in his face grew a little deeper in defiance of the rising sun.

For some reason, everyone looked at Lancelot. So he looked back at them, then slid up beside Arthur. “So? What’d you say to Ambrosius?”

“Not much. I started to hint about—and he made it clear he wasn’t going to do anything without solid proof.” Arthur wasn’t satisfied in the least about that, but neither did it look as if he was going to fight for the point. “There’s a shortage of officers. Lucius can’t be taken from active duty unless it’s clear treason. And it’s not clear that it was.”

“Perfect. So we have to watch for knives at our backs as well as at our fronts?” Anger made Lancelot speak just a little too loud; Perceval and Gawain both gave him odd looks, and across the legionary column, Tristan also seemed to notice some kind of disturbance. The man next to him followed his gaze, then glanced at Tristan and made a peculiar motion with the fingers of his left hand. Tristan dipped his head, but Lancelot could see the edge of a smile. “Damn it…”

“I _know_ , Lancelot. But it has to wait. Paullus knows as well; we’ll both be watching out for Lucius, but that’s the best that can be done until the rebellion’s smothered.” Arthur spoke rapid, tight-bound words that seemed to crackle as he rode off, doubtless to find a little more congenial company. From the back, his shoulders were humped up like an old man’s against the wind.

Lancelot dug his nails into the saddle and cursed again, then wheeled back to inspect the line. If he couldn’t say anything right, then there was no point in staying where he could see the temptation to open his mouth again. Maybe a spell of tongue-lashing delinquent knights would calm him long enough so that he wouldn’t keep driving Arthur off.

* * *

Perceval was massaging his temples, and it didn’t look as if his headache was solely due to a hangover. “Sometimes I think we should knock out Lancelot, tie him to his damned horse, and leave him behind the Wall.”

“A good plan,” Gawain agreed. “But who would tell Arthur?”

The other man winced and pinched the bridge of his nose, but didn’t answer. Down the line, the sound of Lancelot’s haranguing began to drift back at them. Certainly there probably was due cause, given that Sarmatians weren’t naturally given to uniform order and it was the first major campaign after a winter of mostly loafing, but Lancelot really could stand to shut up for a while. Unfortunately, the only man who could ever persuade him to do that seemed to be preoccupied with a heated discussion with Paullus.

“Arthur,” Perceval finally continued, “Needs either a good dunking in ale, or to get rid of his books. I’m not sure which would be better.”

“Careful—that’s our great commander you speak of,” Galahad snorted, riding up. He slipped around Gawain and cut between legionary cohorts to end up speaking to Tristan and two or three of the knights about him. After a moment, they all peeled off and came back around; Galahad slowed by Gawain, but the others went ahead to Arthur. “Anyway, your ideas always get someone upset, and isn’t the point to cheer them up?”

Perceval failed to answer again, but this time it was because he was staring disgustedly at the backs of the new knights. “I lost two fucking brothers to their people.”

Gawain coughed, but before he could follow that up with anything, Galahad had dragged him back. “No point in trying. Perceval may hold his drink better, but he and Agravaine are about the same for bad morning tempers.”

“And since when did you have a sense of diplomacy?” Gawain countered, giving the man a second look.

Sadly, Galahad’s exhibition of maturity was only momentary; he made a face at Gawain and tried to elbow him. “I just don’t feel like seeing you imitate Arthur, considering how bad things already are. Anyway, your new friends are going to be scouting ahead for the rest of the day, so no need to worry. Except for the fact that we’re going over the fucking river.”

It was a bad idea to screech to a halt in the middle of a march, but that was what Gawain almost did. Only Galahad’s hand, still holding onto Gawain’s reins, kept him moving.

Several yards later, Gawain finally managed to get hold of himself. “So not only are we going into the forest, but we’re going in on the Woad-side.”

“Brilliant strategy. Nice to hear about it.” Lancelot came cantering up and blew right past, a storm brewing in his face. Directly ahead of him, Arthur turned around to show an expectant, resigned expression.

To his credit, Galahad looked a little regretful. But then he shook it off and shrugged, aggravation a red stain in his cheeks. “Everyone’s going to know in a few minutes anyway when we hit the bridge.”

“At least there’s a proper road,” Gawain said, though that didn’t reassure him much, and Galahad’s mood certainly didn’t improve.

Two of the scouts, one of them Tristan, went by just then, and the second scout grinned at Gawain. “There’s better fighting off the roads, you know.”

“No, I don’t know,” Galahad retorted, glaring. As if Gawain was the one needed defending.

Tristan had let his hawk fly away sometime before, so now his arm was free to hide his tolerant smile while his partner made an extravagant bow from the saddle. “I am Dinidan, fair youth.”

Then the pair of them wheeled and sloped off while Galahad flushed from hairline to collar and Gawain, unable to help himself because it was true, briefly joined in the laughter of the other men. But he soon pulled himself together and prodded Galahad with anecdotes about Agravaine and some local cows until the other man cheered up.

* * *

“You like redheads?”

Dagonet didn’t visibly startle, as far as he knew. But that question hadn’t been one he’d expected having to answer, so he took a moment before he answered. “No.”

“Oh, good. Bad enough Lancelot’s always pestering Vanora; I don’t need another whelp to chase off.” Then Bors belched, much to the disgust of all his other immediate neighbors, and resettled himself in the saddle. His tack groaned, and his horse, one of the largest and sturdiest beasts Dagonet had ever seen, whickered a little nervously. “How about blondes?”

Now Dagonet took a slight interest. “Why? Is Vanora both?”

For some reason, Bors seemed to find that funny, whooping and grinning till someone far, far down the line yelled for him to shut up. His genial face instantly transformed itself into a hard-featured mask of violence, and he snarled right back. “And who are you to tell me that? You want to—”

He started to urge his horse forward, but Dagonet snatched the man’s reins and held him back. Then wondered why he’d taken the trouble when Bors twisted around to glare at him.

“And you!” Bors glowered and loomed—then collapsed into another grin. “Relax, Dag. If I really wanted to get him, you wouldn’t even have seen the tail of my horse leaving.”

Dag?

“So? Blondes? Or you like them dark-haired? I can have a word with Vanora when we get back; she knows some amiable young lasses.” The other man leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, waving at Dagonet. And suddenly Bors was serious again, but in a kindly way that dimly reminded Dagonet of his grandfather, the only member of his family in Sarmatia that he still clearly remembered. “Listen, I heard you—all yours got killed off. Sorry about that. But Arthur wants me to watch over you, so you don’t have to worry now.”

For a moment, Dagonet wasn’t quite sure how to respond, or even if he should respond at all. But Bors seemed to be sincere about what he was saying, so finally Dagonet settled on smiling.

That earned him a solid thump on the shoulder, which briefly threw him. Usually his sheer size intimidated most people into staying a safe distance away, let alone daring to touch him for anything besides medical treatment. This was new. And upon further reflection, not unwelcome.

“Good, good. And you’ll have chances enough for revenge,” Bors said. His tone was absent, but not maliciously so; apparently, he was one of those who saw fighting as fighting and not as war or anything greater.

Which reminded Dagonet of a few thoughts he’d had earlier. “Arthur. Is he what they say he is?”

“What? What do they say he is?” A bit puzzled, Bors glanced back and slowed so they were even with each other.

Dagonet shrugged and recollected all the bits of description that had wafted through the stables of the garrisons. “Roman, Briton, Sarmatian. Christian.”

“I don’t know what you’re meaning by those, but he’s a good leader. And a great fighter.” Bors doubly affirmed that with a sharp nod of the head. “I’ve been through a few, you know. He’s the best yet. Just you wait and see, Dag.”

About to correct the man, Dagonet suddenly thought better of it. He let the nickname stand.

* * *

Away from the line, Dinidan’s pleasant smile dropped off like rocks from a clifftop. He snarled and hacked at some dense underbrush till he’d forced his own path to the bridge. “Stupid brainless bastards. I almost wish I had killed their damned relatives myself.”

Tristan calmly clucked his horse down the existing path, made broad and smooth by years of tramping by many armies. “They don’t all share the same opinion.”

“Hmm, no. Arthur actually is fair in that way, and the one you chatted with seems to be nice enough.” Dinidan sighed and sheathed his sword, staring at the mess he’d made. “This isn’t working.”

He backed his mount out and returned to the main road, catching up with Tristan when they were about halfway over the bridge. Solid wood and stone, it’d hold up over almost anything, and its location commanded a spectacular view of the countryside.

“So this is what it feels like to be a defenseless caravan,” Dinidan mused, watching the rustling of the trees on the far bank, which for the moment was innocent.

“I could have told you it wouldn’t have worked. Now you’ll have to sharpen your sword again.” Carefully keeping his voice toneless, Tristan picked up the pace a bit. The sooner they were out of the open, the sooner his skin would stop crawling. He had a feeling that they were already being watched, though no sign that he could see betrayed the presence of any Woads.

Close behind him, Dinidan chuckled. Then he suddenly burst past Tristan, one arm out so his fingertips just grazed Tristan’s jaw as he passed. “You should tell me such things, then. And it looks like knife- and arrow-work in there to me.”

About as mature as that downy-cheeked knight he’d been teasing. Sighing, Tristan spurred after the other man.

Though they didn’t race for long, due to the immediate _press_ of the forest once they’d entered it. Even Tristan still needed a moment to adjust to the sudden multiplication of shadows and the thickening of air within the woods.

“Then again, none of that matters in here,” Dinidan muttered. “Whatever happened before, we’re all the same when we’re dead and buried on this forsaken island.”

“I understand that most people don’t enjoy thinking about that. So they distract themselves with other matters.” A tiny brown spot on the edge of Tristan’s vision suddenly came swooping down and he raised his arm—

\--but his stallion moved. Piqued and not attempting to hide it, his hawk fluttered up a few feet before alighting on a nearby branch. There she irritably snapped her beak a few times.

Tristan shot a look at Dinidan, who serenely dropped Tristan’s reins in favor of grabbing Tristan by the back of the neck into a short, fierce kiss. Then, smiling again, he nuzzled at Tristan’s cheek before withdrawing.

“You know, who really interests me here is Lancelot. I thought he’d be more…stoic?” Dinidan was moving on again, as if the world hadn’t just flipped about and was only now coming to a stop.

After a moment, Tristan shook away the bright spots in his vision and raised his arm to her, making tiny coaxing noises in the back of his throat. At first she looked disdainful, but she eventually deigned to come back to his wrist. “You thought the commander and his second would be twins?”

“Of course not.” The other man paused to check a patch of broken twigs, then twitched a shoulder, signaling nothing of importance, and kept going. “Maybe stoic isn’t the right word. But you hear that he’s a wonderful swordsman and everything—well, I assumed he’d be a little more controlled.”

“I don’t think we’ve seen him as he normally is.” There was an indentation in the dirt that looked a little suspicious, but a closer look revealed it to be a bear print; the animals were rising from their winter sleep in time to see the best and worst of men.

Tristan reached behind him and loosened his sword in its scabbard, then nudged his horse on. They had a campsite to find, and no time to tarry in pointless thoughts.

* * *

Thankfully, the vast majority of the soldiers only balked a little when they realized where they were going, and crossed the river without much protest. They trusted in their leaders and followed Arthur and Paullus, and watching it made Arthur’s throat hurt.

Lancelot had merely asked Arthur to confirm the truth. Then he’d fallen in to ride just behind Arthur and had stayed there, an unsmiling, dark blot on the edge of Arthur’s sight, even after they’d dismounted behind the fast-rising walls of camp.

“Does your man want a talk or not?” Paullus suddenly snapped, whirling on Arthur. The man hated politics, and so his irritation with the whole situation had been growing throughout the day, to the point where even his own men were beginning to avoid him. “Or is he planning to stand there for the rest of the night?”

Arthur stepped back and set his shoulders, ready to defend Lancelot’s presence, but when he looked over, the other man had already disappeared. The edge of a shadow peeked from behind a nearby tent, he also noted. “I’ll dispose of my men as I see fit,” Arthur said, keeping his voice deliberately cool. “Just as you do yours, and hopefully, Lucius his.”

“Lucius.” Paullus bent over a stack of palisade stakes and spit. “Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid grandiose plans.”

“Now might be a good time to tell me about all the rumors I’ve missed.” It was an effort, but Arthur recovered his civility and reminded himself that now was not the time to alienate his colleague. Even if he’d like to punch the man over said lumber-pile.

Instead, he turned to take in the cavalry camp, which had been built within the main fortifications. Normally the cavalry would go separately, but they were too few and neither Arthur nor Paullus wanted to risk having split communication lines. Not when so much else was uncertain.

The slight beam of light through the clouds was that when angry and without a target, Lancelot had a tendency to take it out in work. Consequently, he was more efficient and productive than at any other time, and Arthur hadn’t had to worry much about getting his knights settled. For the moment, even the newly-transferred ones seemed to be doing all right, though that could be due to the fact that Arthur was constantly rotating them into scout duty, in the hopes that tired men were men that wouldn’t start or take on fights.

“There’s not much to tell,” Paullus sighed, stabbing his heel into the dirt. He frowned at the small dent his efforts had made—winter hadn’t yet lost its grips on the ground here. “Vespasian, Constantine…there’s been a lot of men using Britain to vault into the Emperor’s Chair. And Lucius has just enough noble blood for him to think it makes a good excuse for anything.”

“He can’t think the Woads would fight for him. They hate the Romans more than anything else on earth.” Arthur returned his attention to Paullus and closely watched the passage of emotions over the other man’s face.

But he didn’t see anything except simple disgust and resignation, for machinations of this kind were anything but out-of-place in the Roman world. Contrary to what Lancelot seemed to think, Arthur didn’t idealize Rome as a utopia where nothing at all was wrong. But he did think that the marvels Rome had wrought, and the good men she produced or influenced, outweighed the evils that also followed in her train. Though sometimes it seemed as if only the bad took root overseas, and the good withered and died.

Paullus half-closed his eyes and looked at Arthur like he was a callow recruit. “He doesn’t really _need_ them to fight for him; he’d just need them to fight us till Ambrosius is recalled for incompetence. Of course, then there’s a problem, because it’s either you or Lucius for successor.”

Arthur’s mouth dropped open. Then he hurriedly stepped back and ducked his head, because he knew his expression was idiotic, but it was some moments before he could make his tongue work again. “Me?” he hissed. “You and a half-dozen other garrison commanders have seniority.”

“And we’re all infantry, and they’re gradually pulling the infantry out, or haven’t you noticed? You and Lucius are the practically the only ones with any experience with cavalry left.” Blackly amused, Paullus pushed Arthur back into the shadow of the command tent. “Don’t let your mouth hang like that, Artorius. It’s bad for your reputation.”

“Lucius’ Gallic cavalry mutinied twice against him, and I heard they almost got him hung the second time. That’s why Ambrosius switched him to infantry.” Still incredulous, Arthur walked in a half-circle because there wasn’t room for flat-out pacing. Then he twisted back before his mind had gotten quite past making sense of so many fragments of memory. “He is not taking over my knights!”

Paullus blinked, then grinned. “Spoken like a true commander. Artorius, I didn’t realize you had it in you.”

“I…” Arthur gave himself a mental cuffing and tried to calm down before he said something stupid in front of a less-forgiving audience. He glanced out at the camp, with all its organized, chaotic bustling that had nearly finished raising the palisade walls within two hours.

“Anyway, not much to worry about,” the other man went on, politely giving Arthur a chance to regroup. “If he was aiming to get you killed in battle, his game went off too early. Now, I’m thinking the Woads aren’t particularly choosy about which Roman officer they disembowel. Lucius has to fight as hard as we’ll have to.”

Which was a significantly different tune from the one Paullus had been singing earlier in the day. “You seem to have changed your mind.”

“Well, I’ve been doing some thinking. And Ambrosius has lasted a long time out here; he knows something’s in the wind now.” When Paullus grinned, his eyeteeth showed like a wolf’s did. “See, that’s why I’m nice to you and not to Lucius. You and Ambrosius know what you’re fucking doing.”

A good man, Arthur thought as he watched Paullus walk off. A good one, but not quite a friend.

“I take it I can come out now?” Lancelot hopped over a few stray posts, but kept a few feet between him and Arthur. “Your tent’s up.”

“But I didn’t—oh. Thank you.” Arthur rolled his shoulders back and tried to return his mind to the myriad petty details of setting up a secure camp. Though thanks to Paullus’ news and Lancelot’s presence, that was rather difficult. “Are the scouts in?”

The other man warily edged a foot closer, gaze moving repeatedly over Arthur’s face like the changeable warmth from a flickering flame. “All but two—Tristan and…Dinidan, I think his name is? The others said they went farther, but that they’d be in before dusk falls.” Lancelot abruptly threw up his head, the way a stallion would toss its mane. “You should thank Galahad, too. He’s upset I made him help with your tent.”

And Arthur had to smile, because of course he would assume Lancelot would’ve done it all himself, and of course Lancelot would’ve been sensible enough to realize he needed a few more hands than his own. Nevertheless, that didn’t change the strength of the act’s implication, and it would’ve taken a stronger or more foolish man than Arthur to refuse an outstretched hand. “I will,” he replied, stepping towards Lancelot, and—

\--then he stopped, cocking his head. Someone was shouting at the gate.

* * *

Gawain hadn’t seen it coming at all. But then, he wasn’t used to men diving at him from knee-level. “Galahad!”

“Shh! Anyone catches us and it’s your fault.” And then Galahad somehow had Gawain’s trousers open and Gawain’s prick down his throat.

Fortunately, they were in a tent and Gawain had been standing by the support-pole, which he was now attempting to grind into his ass. It was starting to lean. “Galahad…”

Who had a disgusting habit of licking the foam from his mug, but who now turned that habit to better use. Gawain grabbed behind him for the pole and wrenched it back by main force, tried not to groan as that put more of his cock into Galahad’s hot sucking mouth, then stomped his heels around its end to pack the dirt down. Galahad grinned somehow and walked his fingers up Gawain’s thighs, tips warm and tickling in contrast to the cool air.

“…and where’s Gawain? If someone’s got to talk to those filthy bastards, it might as well be him. He’s so friendly with them he might as well kiss them.”

“Agravaine, shut up.” Urien.

It was nice of him, though he was probably just smarting from the rebuke Lancelot had given him in the morning. As for Agravaine, Gawain made a note to do something embarrassing to the man the next time he tripped over the grumpy drunk.

It appeared that Galahad had heard as well, because he made a low growl that did wonderful, devastating things to Gawain’s prick. The pole shook again as Gawain staggered, coming before he had time to warn the other man.

“The sad thing is, it still tastes better than field rations,” Galahad muttered, sitting back and wiping off his mouth.

The footsteps were nearly at their tent, so Gawain didn’t have time for anything except glaring and yanking up his trousers. He did, however, have the pleasure of kicking the brat onto his feet. Then he turned around just in time to smile pleasantly at Urien. “Hmm?”

“Last scouts are in. Arthur’s going across the river—something about trying to catch Lucius Cornelius before the armies get too far apart. He wants to see you and Galahad, and after, you’re responsible for seeing the scouts settled in.” Message delivered, Urien ducked back out and resumed herding Agravaine to somewhere else, which couldn’t have suited Gawain better.

“In other words, no one wants to tell them where everything else.” Galahad rolled his eyes and grabbed his sword and Gawain’s ax, which he then handed over. “This is a little stupid, isn’t it? Like what women do when they decide they don’t like another girl.”

Gawain stared.

And typically, Galahad failed to take that as a compliment. “Stop that; you look like someone’s just hit you with your own ax. Damn it, this means I’ll have to wait for—”

Kissing worked to some extent, in that it stopped him talking before he could irritate anyone. Then Gawain tousled the man’s hair and ducked out of the tent. “I’m told anticipation only sweetens things, so by the time I’m done, you should be ready as a mare in heat.”

He dodged Galahad’s blow and walked very quickly around Bors and Dagonet, who together effectively blocked off the whole path. By the time Galahad caught up, they were facing Arthur.

* * *

Damn the man. Damn him, damn him, and damn him again. And yet Lancelot was hanging onto Arthur’s stirrup like a particularly stubborn child. “What’s the point in this, Arthur? You just said he probably was planning to kill you, and now you’re going to warn him about an ambush? You really think he’ll welcome you with open arms?”

He’d been on the verge of apologizing to Arthur when the riders had come in, and then Lancelot hadn’t been able to move or speak because he couldn’t figure out who he wanted to strangle more: Tristan for pulling up short and breathlessly announcing they were on the wrong side of the river for attacking Woads, or Arthur for volunteering to go warn Lucius himself. That had surprised the knights, but Paullus, damn him too, had just looked grim and nodded.

“Arthur! Are you even listening to me?” Lancelot dug his heels into the ground and grabbed for Arthur’s hand, which he tried to pry off the reins. “Why can’t you just send a messenger?”

“Because a messenger can’t lead the knights Lucius has with him into battle. He’s got thirty with him as scouts and messengers.” Arthur bit off the last word of that sentence and jerked his head away from Lancelot, then reined in and twisted down to seize Lancelot by the back of the neck.

That act lifted Lancelot onto his toes and pulled painfully at his scalp, but it also meant he could get a better hold on Arthur, so he didn’t care. “Arthur, you don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do. If we’re going to have any chance in this campaign, we have to hold the river. Ambrosius split us up—” Arthur cut himself off again. Of course. He’d never openly criticize a superior. Not even to Lancelot, who knew what the man’s come, tears, sweat and blood tasted like. “—at the least, we need the men Lucius has, and we need them alive. He’s a terrible strategist—you know that.”

“Then take some men with you,” Lancelot insisted, digging his nails into Arthur’s shoulder. “Take—take—”

But a single shift and Arthur was sliding away from Lancelot, sitting upright. “I can’t. Lucius already won’t want to listen to me; it wouldn’t be a good idea to alarm him, or let him know we’ve found out his plans. You’re in charge while I’m gone. Remember what I said—if there’s fighting, we’ll try to force it down to the ford.”

“That’s a mile from here, and you’d be crossing in the dark.” Lancelot swallowed and swallowed, but he could still taste the rancid flavor of begging. And Arthur’s face, however reluctant, was also implacable.

A sudden surge of fury pushed Lancelot off Arthur’s horse—at least, that was what it felt like. His arms didn’t seem to be his own anymore, and neither did his tongue. “Then go, you pompous jackass. You think you can carry it all yourself? Fine. You can go try, then.”

“Lancelot—” Arthur started, but ahead, the gate sentries were starting to notice the commotion. He turned about to wave them off, but then glanced over his shoulder. “The river, Lancelot.”

“And what if you die, and the men and Lucius live? How much better off are we then?” Lancelot bitterly shot back. There was a post by him for mounting, and he held onto that so he wouldn’t be tempted to run out and make a fool of himself again.

The other man almost closed his eyes with real pain, but Lancelot forced himself to stay put. “There’s a chance of that, but I think the chances of losing Lucius’ army are greater.”

“What if I think differently? Or what if I decide to leave things to Gawain and come?” Both of them knew where this conversation was heading because so many previous ones had tended the same way, but before, one or the other of them had managed to pull up in time. But not now. Not now, when Lancelot’s gut was plunging to his knees with sickness and his head was boiling with rage and fear. “Say it, Arthur. Damn you, _say it_. Say it or—”

“Lancelot, I’m ordering you to stay here.” Then Arthur bowed his head, as if he were faint and about to fall off his horse. A long, long moment later, he lifted it, and the world was grayer.

Lancelot couldn’t tear his eyes away long enough to look, but he thought his hand might be bleeding from the grip he had on the post. “I never thought you would actually say that to me.”

“I never thought I’d have to,” Arthur said, with a surprising degree of heat in his tone. But when he turned away, he was slumped over the saddle as if he’d already lost the battle, and Lancelot wasn’t standing very steadily, either.

Despite it all, Lancelot stayed to watch the other man go, as he had a thousand times before.


	3. Ambush

As it turned out, Gawain was snatched off by Lancelot halfway to showing Tristan and Dinidan where the horses were hobbled and tethered, so Galahad ended up taking over. He kept his words curt and short, and himself well clear of the other two.

“We don’t bite, you know,” Dinidan finally said, exasperated tone very like Gawain’s. He hefted off his saddlebags into Tristan’s arms, then turned back to deal with Tristan’s horse. “And frankly, I don’t remember anyone as pretty as you in Sarmatia, so I don’t think you can claim feud on me.”

“That’s your idea of not biting?” Galahad resisted the urge to rub at his cheeks, which had been and still were an embarrassment to him. Maybe Gawain was right, and the hairs there would eventually darken and thicken, but it couldn’t happen soon enough. After years and years, the teasing was far past old and into killing-offense territory. “Your friends are that way. Lancelot’s in charge while Arthur’s gone, and he’s over there. Food’s left and straight out.”

Then he started to go, but Dinidan twisted in front of him, an expression of mock-hurt on his face. “What, you aren’t going to take the time and show us yourself?” he cooed.

“Go fuck your horse,” Galahad snorted, knocking past him. But something snagged and caught, and when Galahad tried to yank himself free, he just about pulled the saddle from Dinidan’s shoulder.

“Hey!” Fast reflexes. Dinidan saved it from the dirt, but in the process he lost his balance and fell heavily against a rail. His hands scrambled to keep the various buckles and straps from dangling into the mud, like a girl trying to hold onto a recalcitrant hen.

Galahad started to laugh, but then he remembered Tristan’s presence and choked it back. There were men moving around nearby, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was safe from all harm.

But interestingly enough, Tristan didn’t do more than glance Galahad’s way before walking up to Dinidan. Then he tilted his head and slowly looked over his…partner.

Smiling a little less brazenly, Dinidan grinned back. One shoulder lifted in a careless shrug. “Your saddle. Wouldn’t want to get it filthy, would we?”

It was hard to tell from Galahad’s angle, but Tristan might have rolled his eyes before grabbing Dinidan under the elbow and helping him up. His hand slid from there to ghost up Dinidan’s back, and both men slanted curious looks at Galahad, who didn’t react. Then Tristan lightly cuffed Dinidan on the side of the head. “Stop teasing him.”

“But he has such an adorable blush,” Dinidan murmured, trading saddles with Tristan.

“If you’ve all got tongues like his, then I can understand why people don’t like you.” Hopefully, Gawain would return soon, and then Galahad really would have a good excuse for leaving these two.

Tristan shot Dinidan another quieting look, which to Galahad’s eye had a tint of jealousy to it, and Galahad knew very well that he wasn’t particularly observant when it came to such things. A second reason for Gawain to show up again, given that Galahad didn’t feel up to dealing with this on top of everything else. It was bad enough watching Arthur and Lancelot pick at each other’s scabs.

“Dinidan’s more talkative than most,” Tristan replied, slipping past almost before Galahad had noticed. Well, that particular rumor about their stealth was definitely true, because the men—when Dinidan’s lips weren’t busy—moved like cats. “Which way for our tents?”

“This way,” Galahad sighed, resigning himself to staying with them a little longer. Though he walked on the other side of Tristan, who might be amused most of the time but didn’t mock quite as much as Dinidan. “So what’s going on?”

Both of them blinked at him, a little surprised. “I thought you ranked,” Dinidan said. “Didn’t they tell you?”

“Arthur’s going across the river, Lucius has fucked up again, various people are unhappy—that’s not much to go on. I got you two thrown at me before I could hear the rest.” Galahad shrugged and sidestepped a fresh, steaming pile of horse dung; some jackass hadn’t cleaned up after himself. Not that it mattered too much, since it wasn’t likely they’d be in this camp more than a night.

“We’re on the wrong side of the river. The Britons crossed earlier than…the commanders expected, and they’re encircling Lucius Cornelius.” As Tristan spoke, his voice went lower and lower, till by the time he’d finished, he was whispering.

A moment later, the reason for that rounded the corner and pointedly shouldered by Dinidan, hard enough to knock the man off a step. The muscle in Tristan’s jaw ticked, and he watched Perceval go with a concentration so intense it worried Galahad.

“The wrong side?” Galahad hastily repeated, trying to distract the other man. He probably didn’t do a good job because one, he’d suddenly realized the import of what Tristan had said, and two, that wasn’t his specialty anyway. “And Arthur’s going—shit. Listen, you mind going on by yourself? It’s just the next right. I need to go—can’t believe they let the Britons split them like—what?”

“Oh, nothing. I just figured your friend to be the quick one.” Dinidan had straightened up and sobered as well, and now he was looking at Galahad with near-approval.

Well, he could save his backhanded compliments for someone who didn’t mind the insulting edge to them. “You know, I was almost starting to like you.”

“He has that effect on people,” Tristan commented, sounding faintly exasperated. Sensibly enough, he grabbed Dinidan by the arm and dragged him off before he could get to the point where Galahad _had_ to punch the smart-mouthed bastard. “Thank you, by the way.”

Galahad stopped and looked back, surprised that they’d bother, but by then the two men had already vanished.

* * *

“He’s in a mood,” was how Bercilak greeted Arthur upon Arthur’s arrival at Lucius’ camp.

“Isn’t everyone,” Arthur muttered, though he was careful to speak so softly that even Bercilak didn’t hear. He sat up and looked over the sorry excuse for a camp that Lucius had hopefully not yet finished, but the way the soldiers were leaning on their work-tools and chatting made that hope rather dim. From what Arthur could see, his fellow officer had done little more than take over the town’s houses and set a nominal perimeter guard; at the ford, which was so vital to keeping communication lines open, only a few yawning legionaries and two stiffly watchful knights stood guard.

Bercilak, the poor man, was the only troop leader Arthur had who could come near to handling Lucius, but even he looked about ready to commit mutiny. “I did get the knights and the infantry officers that aren’t completely idiotic quartered by the river. Our scouts came in about an hour after we got your message, reported the same thing, but does Lucius do anything? No. He thinks ‘rabble’ wouldn’t dare attack an army this large.”

If Lucius’ forces qualified as an army, then Arthur had a whole nation on the other side of the river.

But thinking about that reminded Arthur of other things that stung worse than human stupidity, so he forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. “Where is he?”

“Right here, right here.” Reddened face, loose way of swinging himself out of a doorway, raised voice…and Lucius appeared to be drunk. Arthur’s headache ratcheted up a notch. “What can I do for you, Artorius Castus?”

All around, the men were turning and staring at their drawling, belligerent, nearly sing-songing commander. Teeth gritted so hard he thought he could hear them cracking, Arthur dismounted as quickly as was possible and caught Lucius by the arm, ushering him politely but inexorably back inside. Then he ducked out to ask Bercilak to watch his horse.

When he turned back, Lucius was sprawled against a table and busy downing another glass of wine. He saw Arthur watching and sloshed a second cup, which he offered to Arthur.

“You have an army of Woads surrounding you. They’ll probably attack after night falls. So there are two choices: you can stay here and fight, or you can hurry everyone over the ford. It’ll be tight, but we can fit them all into our camp.” Arthur ignored the proffered glass and stepped forward so he was staring Lucius in the eye. He fought to keep his lip from curling, but couldn’t make his hands stay out of fists.

Lucius held out the glass for a moment longer, then shrugged and downed it himself. “Why shouldn’t you come to me?”

It was very, very difficult, but Arthur resisted the veil of red creeping over his vision and took a deep breath. Then he yanked the wine flagon out of Lucius’ hand and deliberately upended it, swirling the dark red liquid into the hard-packed dirt with his boot-heel.

The other man blinked. “You fucking son of a bitch.”

Somehow, Lucius still managed to sound as bored as a thrill-seeking senator touring the frontier provinces. For his part, Arthur was rapidly nearing the edge of his temper, and he was beginning to forget exactly why he needed to keep it under control in the first place. “Lucius. You’re an officer. You have a duty to your men to keep them alive.”

“When they hate me, and would very much like to see me hung from the nearest tree? God in heaven, Artorius—they’re barely better than the godforsaken Britons we’re fighting.” With sweeping, grandiose gestures, Lucius windmilled his way around Arthur and lurched his way into his boots. Then he grabbed for his armor, but his hand missed and he came within an inch of collapsing at Arthur’s feet.

“ _They’re_ godforsaken,” Arthur rasped, clutching at the last shreds of his temper. Very carefully and slowly, lest he jar himself into doing something precipitate, he set the flagon down on the table and seized Lucius by the arm.

It was like wrestling with an oversized, drooling sack of grain, but Arthur got the other man buckled into his cuirass. Lucius’ sword went on next, and Arthur was beginning to drape the man’s cloak over his shoulders when Lucius suddenly exerted a burst of energy and flung himself away. He glared with eyes spiderwebbed red and threw out his arm so the flagon, teetering on the edge of the table, crashed to the floor. “Damn you! Damn you and your fucking land!”

“Lucius, there are Woads coming—” Arthur snapped. He pried his hand away from his sword-hilt.

“Don’t tell me you’re a _Roman_. You’re Briton, and Sarmatian, and nothing but mongrel just like the rest of Rome’s fucking legions. We’re going to hell, and it’s all your fault!” Those last words carried enough venom to kill an entire city. They also seemed to use up all the wind Lucius had left, for as soon as he was done speaking, the man collapsed into a chair and dropped his head nearly between his knees. “I can’t stand this place,” he moaned. “I want to leave. That’s all. But no, you and your—”

Arthur felt the roar rising in him, and frankly, he doubted anything could’ve stopped it, let alone his frayed-through patience. “I and my what? I’m trying to save your damned army, and—and if you care a whit for Rome, you’d at least help for her sake. Get up and get out there, you lying bastard. Act like you deserve your rank.”

Lucius reared onto his feet, hand slamming to the sword Arthur had just put around his waist. “Who are you to call me—”

“You sent Lepidus to make some kind of deal, and it fell through. Now we’re all at risk, and it’s—your—doing,” Arthur snarled before he could consider what he was saying, throwing the words over his shoulder as he walked out. Inside this tent was nothing but a lost cause, but outside there were still able and willing men.

The air behind him shifted. Instinct twisted Arthur aside just as his ears caught the sound of steel grating on steel. His cloak billowed up, buffeted by a slight breeze, and he hit at it with his arm as he pivoted, trying to move it out of the way. But then hot pain thudded down from his shoulder to his elbow, and Bercilak was shouting, shoving Arthur to the left.

He stumbled back and clapped a hand to his arm, but fortunately found only bent armor; there would be bruises in the morning, and he’d have to have that repaired before the next battle, but the skin hadn’t been broken. The swing had been too wild.

Arthur looked up, disbelief the only thing in his mind, to stare at an equally shocked Lucius. But then Lucius grinned like a madman and turned to the rapidly-gathering crowd. “Men! The Woads are coming, and they think to take us in the night. Well, to your posts! Show them what you’re made of!”

“No! To the river!” Arthur shouted, lunging for the other man. “Lucius, have you gone mad? There’s no time and you don’t even have a wall up! You’ll just get them slaughtered!”

“To the river!” Bercilak was yelling, gesturing and pulling at soldiers, but the men simply stood and watched, uncertain as to whose authority they were to follow. In the distance, Arthur heard a few high whistling calls: Woads signaling to each other.

Before him, Lucius was rounding with sword up. Shock still had its claws sunk into Arthur and he moved a fraction slower than he rightly should have, but as with everything else except making trouble, Lucius was a poor swordsman. Arthur knocked the blade aside before it’d done more than draw a little blood from his forehead, then wrenched Lucius’ wrist so the man had to drop it. He yanked Lucius straight and pulled him close, trying one last time to preserve some order. “We have to cross, and now,” Arthur hissed. “If you want to live.”

“If I live, I stay here. And if I stay here, I’ll be damned if you get your fucking hands on my men. They can hate me all they want, but they’re not going to anyone else.” A grin again, and Arthur was beginning to think Lucius _was_ mad, and not merely drunk and broken and disappointed. “Least of all to a jumped-up, scheming barbarian like you.”

“If I were interested in that kind of politics, you’d be dead by now.” Thoroughly disgusted, Arthur shoved the other man away. He waited till Bercilak and another knight had taken hold of Lucius before turning to the assembling soldiers. “Pack up and move to the river—quietly. In order. My and Paullus’ men will be on the other bank to meet you.”

Something like a dagger-tip dragged over roof-tiles rattled behind Arthur. “Under whose authority?” Lucius called, chuckling. “I command here.”

“And I—” Arthur’s tongue suddenly choked him, but he closed his eyes and said what had to be said, though it felt as if he were filling with lead “—I outrank you. I declare you unfit to lead and am assuming command.”

A whoosh went around the collected men, one long sigh of relief, but all Arthur knew was the crushing, twisting knot of failure tearing at his insides. Twice in a day.

“Ambitious,” Lucius drawled.

Moments before, Arthur had wanted to pin the man against the table and beat him into an unrecognizable pulp for a similar accusation. But now all he could do was ignore Lucius, ignore the poisonous truth, and see to the soldiers before his mother’s people did.

* * *

Not being too fond of raucous, lewd stories, Dagonet spent only enough time as was necessary at the mess area before extracting himself. That was slightly harder than it used to be, as Bors seemed to be quite popular and insisted on introducing ‘Dag’ to everyone, but eventually Dagonet made his way to the river. It was odd for a knight, but he liked rivers. To him, they weren’t impediments to horses and travel, but smooth graceful landmarks which flow reminded him there was another world beyond the Wall.

The town on the other side was actually rather far from the water, so it could barely be seen except for tiny winking dots of torches and a few of the highest roofs. Nevertheless, Dagonet should have been able to catch a glimpse of the walls of Lucius’ camp, if there were walls. If there was a camp. The wildest rumors were beginning to spread throughout the tents on this side, and they’d only grown when Gawain and Lancelot had announced there’d be extra-heavy shifts for the ford guards.

“Did they even make camp?” someone asked, a few yards below Dagonet, which would put them right on the riverside.

Someone else yelped and scuffled. “Galahad, you stupid son of a bitch, you ever creep up on me like that again—”

“I ever creep up on you like that again, I’ll be sure to kick you into the water before I say hello.” Rustling of weeds as Galahad walked toward the other man, whom Dagonet thought might be Perceval. “You’re a lousy guard.”

“And you’re spending too much time with those plundering whoreson easterners.” Yes, that was Perceval; the man had a unique flavor of bitterness to his voice that was unmistakable. “Where’s your sense gone?”

Galahad made an irritated sound that barely carried over the sudden rattle of wind passing through branches. “Maybe it’s a little preoccupied with, say, all the Woads out there that want to kill us? And you’re not my mother.”

“No…” Judging from the uptick in Perceval’s voice, he was stretching. “Too bad Gawain’s not doing a better job.”

The wind came winging back, cold as the welcome of an unfaithful wife, and Galahad’s reply just about equaled it for sting. “I should tie you to my horse and drag you out for the Britons.”

“You should—oh, never mind. What are you doing here, anyway? It wasn’t to show me how idiotic you are.”

The next thing Dagonet heard was the sound of someone landing a good, solid punch. Then a plopping sound, and the crackle of grass under it. “Last time I ever bring you fucking food. And I’ll be sure to tell Gawain how much you appreciate his thoughtfulness.”

“Little brat…” Perceval now talked as if through a mouthful of water. Or blood, or possibly some loose teeth. “Wait. What’s—”

Dagonet also saw the spark of color at the fringes of his sight, and turned to look again at the far bank. Over there someone was waving signal banners—they were coming over. Also, enemies approaching…and so that rumor was correct. They were on the wrong side of the waters; Ambrosius had underestimated the speed of the newly-raised Woad army, and now the Roman forces were dangerously divided. But, it seemed, Arthur was rectifying that.

If nothing else, the man certainly took a personal interest in things, which was a rare trait to find in officers as high as he was. He was also younger than Dagonet had thought, though the air of weary worry drifting about him probably had caused people to treat him as much older for most of his life. But still, popular with his men; they might grumble into their porridge about Rome’s heavy lash, but for the most part, they seemed not to blame Arthur. Some of them were actually quite worried for him, and had accompanied those statements were sideways looks at both the river and at Lancelot, who was riding up now.

He reined in a bit when he saw Dagonet, but only for a moment. A curt nod, and Lancelot was weaving past Dagonet to head for the bank.

It wasn’t clear whether Dagonet was to follow or not, but he was curious now, so he walked down. Halfway there, he ran into Bors coming from a crosspath and received a hearty scolding. “Dag, damn it, if you’re going to disappear like that, you should remember your ax at least.”

“Sorry. And thank you.” Dagonet took his ax before Bors waved it around one inch too far and knocked off someone’s nose, then shouldered it and continued walking. “It looks like they’re crossing.”

“About time. I never like split armies. ‘s like asking a man to step between the legs of your woman and then not to do anything while you take a piss.” Bors was half-armored and carrying his bow, but otherwise didn’t seem to be particularly worried, even though full dark had almost set in. It was a new moon as well, so they were even worse off for light.

When they finally reached the riverbank, Dagonet got an inkling of why a fierce man like Bors might be so complacent: Lancelot already had men with torches ready to be lit, and more knights and legionaries were arriving every second. A grizzled, one-eyed centurion was ordering the infantry around to clear a path back to the camp; he and Lancelot mostly went about their own duties, but occasionally the centurion would consult with Gawain, and Gawain would then make a grab at Lancelot’s leg because the man was always moving. Riding down to check the ford’s depth for himself, splashing back to watch narrow-eyed as the first soldiers on the far bank started crossing, restlessly petting at his equally restive stallion.

“Water’s risen a bit since morning,” Bedivere said, climbing up to Bors and Dagonet with trousers soaked to the knees. “The mountain snows are starting to melt.”

“We’ve time,” Dagonet said, assessing the lap of ink-black waters against the shores.

Bors raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

“I grew up by a river.” And it hadn’t been much like this one, but some basic things were the same the world round. Such as the truth of a man’s own eyes, and what Dagonet’s eyes were seeing was that Arthur was a trustworthy man. Lepidus had hinted about a connection with a cavalry officer, but had never said who—Dagonet had had to go with his gut and guess whom to tell. If he’d been wrong, then Arthur would’ve kept Lucius’ army on the far bank, but clearly he hadn’t. Dagonet had chosen correctly.

“You like to fish, then?” Bors was asking. “Don’t mind the taste of the fresh ones, myself. You catch them, I’ll cook them so nice in oil that you’ll be dreaming of them for years. Vanora’s special recipe.”

Dagonet stifled a smile and moved to help roll a log out of the way. “If we have time tomorrow, I’ll see if the fish are running.”

* * *

By Tristan’s estimate, all of the baggage train and most of the infantry had made it across the river in a little over an hour. It’d been a nasty, swearing rush of men and pack animals and bulky, balky wagons, but Lancelot’s glower coupled with Gawain’s improvisational skills was startlingly effective in resolving transportation issues. Shame that Lancelot couldn’t seem to calm down and stay in one place; half the problem was that if one wanted to ask him a question, one had to chase him down as he ranged over the ford, always glancing towards the far bank.

Eventually, Tristan had volunteered to go out almost to the opposite shore and act as guide, simply because he had grown tired of watching Lancelot dart about. Not to mention the silent battle of looks that Dinidan and that one knight—Perceval?—seemed to be conducting. When Gawain had noticed, he’d rolled his eyes and purposefully splashed them with water so they’d had to go back on land, where there were plenty of men to block their private war. Frankly, Tristan was with Gawain in opinion, but since he couldn’t interfere without having consequences down on his head, he’d absented himself from the situation. Perceval hated them—they weren’t too charmed by him, either, and nothing could really be done by either side. During the march, Arthur had gone among them and made it quite clear that he wouldn’t stand for any carry-over of feuding, and Lancelot was eagerly enforcing that rule.

Dinidan had been right about that, Tristan thought. Lancelot was an interesting character.

“Sir? Excuse me, sir?” A girl—barely more than thirteen summers, Tristan realized to his surprise—was waving at him. She was holding a little boy by the hand, who was clearly too short to walk it across; he’d be swept off his feet. “Can you carry him?”

And what were civilians doing waiting on the bank? Tristan looked about for an officer, but he didn’t recognize any of the knights within earshot.

“He can.” A knight with unusually broad shoulders appeared and easily gathered up both children, then waded out to Tristan. “Bercilak,” was his introduction. “Arthur’s having everyone evacuated. Damned jackass Lucius wouldn’t fortify the town, and it’s too late now. We’ll have to let it go and then retake it.”

Absorbing that, Tristan absently took the children and settled them, one in front and one behind. “Where is Arthur?”

“He—” But before Bercilak could finish, he was interrupted by a thin, soaring whine and a vast rushing of air.

Arrows.

Tristan kicked his heels into his horse and whipped it about, racing pell-mell over the ford for the safe side of the river, while behind him, Bercilak was roaring for his horse. The girl screamed and sobbed into Tristan’s back, but the boy tried to twist and turn to see till Tristan, fed up, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “ _Still_.”

The boy stilled.

By some miracle, his horse didn’t trip on a loose rock, and the arrows starting to dive into the river all missed him. They quickly outdistanced those and ripped up onto the riverbank, showering everyone within a few yards of them with water. Gawain’s face suddenly burst into view as torches flamed high, then steadied. “What—”

“Take them.” First Tristan swung down the boy, who went easily, with a wide-eyed look back at Tristan. Then he tried to get the girl down, but she was petrified with fear and refused to let go.

“Here, now. It’s all right.” Paullus, of all people, loomed up, reaching for the girl. He smiled nicely, showing unusually white teeth, and the girl nearly leaped into his arms. Though, Tristan was interested to see, Paullus lost no time in handing her off to some centurion. Then he whirled back to fix Tristan with his eyes. “What’s going on over there?”

Lancelot had been up the bank, and now he came rushing down as Tristan spoke. “The Woads are attacking, but only the knights are left over there.”

“Arthur,” Lancelot growled, voice rising in a tempestuous mixture of fury and terror. He and Paullus shared a look, and then Paullus turned away, calling for the men still in the river to hurry. Apparently, he was taking full control over the evacuation efforts.

That left Lancelot free to gather up some of the knights and move them halfway across, just short of the arrows’ range. Very short—one dipped into the river a foot from Tristan’s horse, making it start and toss its head. He smoothed a hand over its neck, soothing it as best he could.

“Where’s your hawk?” Gawain came up by Tristan’s right side, pulling his bow off his back as he did.

“Dinidan’s watching it.” Tristan did likewise, marking out a shadow that had strayed too near the waters. He shot and someone screamed. “Or he should be.”

A sympathetic expression graced Gawain’s face. “Galahad had better remember his stirrup leather’s strained.”

“He should fix something like that,” Tristan agreed. The arrows were fewer and more sparse, and from the sound of things, the Woads were going in for hand-to-hand now. He moved up a several yards, nearly onto dry land, and marked his next shot.

“He should,” Gawain snorted, letting his arrow fly. “But people don’t often do, do they?”

* * *

After his last outburst, Lucius had thankfully been quiet, and none of his officers decided to make any trouble. Likewise, the town elders had seen something in Arthur’s face that had persuaded them to save the complaints for later, and the actual evacuation had gone surprisingly smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, that Arthur had almost begun to believe that the worst was over.

But then it had come time to move Lucius. The man had gotten onto his horse calmly enough, though rather slowly, and he was riding placidly by Arthur’s side when the Woads suddenly attacked. The Woads had always been justly famous for their speed, but they usually made up for that with a lack of discipline that left wide holes in their defense.

Not now. Now, someone with a sharp intelligence and an iron will was directing these Woads, and they were moving in devastating concert. In a matter of seconds, Arthur found himself clinging to the saddle while his horse’s hooves scrabbled for balance on the slippery pebbles of the river-shore. And Lucius—

\--was racing back and pointing his sword at Arthur, yelling at someone in the town. “Here! He’s here!”

“What the—” A few yards away, Bercilak wrenched his rearing stallion around by main force, then swore and nearly toppled from the saddle. An arrow seemed to have grown in a second from his arm. “Fuck!”

“Lucius, come on—” Arthur spurred his horse after the other officer and, when close enough, seized the reins to the man’s horse. But then he saw.

Merlin raised his bow and shot.

Everything slowed to the crawl of clotted blood dripping down a tree trunk. Without thinking, Arthur threw up his arm and slammed his heel into the ribs of his horse, trying to make it move.

Except the arrow wasn’t aimed at him. First Lucius’ face was a transformation of crazed ecstasy, reveling—in what he thought was Arthur’s imminent death—and then it went to horror and sudden fury at betrayal.

The shot came within a hairsbreadth of taking Lucius in the throat, but at the last moment his horse, infected with panic, reared. It went into his shoulder instead, sending him reeling against Arthur, head smacking Arthur in the side and arm flinging across the back of Arthur’s horse.

“We leave the treachery to the Romans,” Merlin said, very clearly and distinctly. Then he was a blur, darting aside as Bercilak charged and then whacking the knight out of the saddle with a long staff he seemingly produced from thin air. Other Woads were swarming onto Bercilak before the man even hit the ground: Arthur glimpsed bloody blades flashing, an eye gouged free to be squashed into the dirt. Bercilak’s war-howl abruptly cut off in a sickening gurgle.

Arthur’s stallion bucked and pawed the air, too maddened by the sudden overwhelming wave of blood to be controlled. Lucius seemed to have passed out and was a dead weight trapping his and Arthur’s mounts together; Arthur tried to pull the other man free, but a shadow flew from the mob on—on what was left of Bercilak and he only just hacked off the upraised hand and sword in time. Then another came at him—he ducked without realizing why till the passing arrow had scratched his cheek. As he did, he accidentally kicked his horse, which it took as a signal to turn and gallop blindly for the river.

Lucius’ horse detoured away and almost pulled him in two, but somehow he revived and jerked his feet from the stirrups just in time. Then he was clawing and gouging at Arthur’s ribs till strained buckles gave—the sword-blow from earlier had weakened that shoulderguard, Arthur remembered—and Arthur’s cuirass began to slide off him.. “Move!”

“You—you and Merlin—” As they passed the last building, a Woad leaped from the roof, missing Arthur only because he used all his strength to make his stallion swerve. It both saved him and damned him, because the sharp turn threw Lucius fully onto the back of Arthur’s horse. The other man wasted no time in punching Arthur in the temple.

The world went black tinged with red. Arthur slammed his elbow back and stabbed it on something that made Lucius scream: the arrow that’d hit him. But that only gained him time to make it to the piers before Lucius recovered.

“He was supposed to kill you! I got him you, and he got me the rebellion I needed to get Ambrosius booted out!” Lucius cried, scrabbling to keep from falling off the other side. “Ambrosius is the bastard keeping me here! Him and you!”

Silver flashed—silver was flashing all around, blades splintering the firelight from the torched buildings—and suddenly Lucius was off, half-dragged and half-running, and Arthur had a shout ripping out his throat because it was excruciating. Half-blind, he hooked his arm around the saddle horn and threw himself forward, twisting and bucking to get whatever Lucius had in his back out. From his lower left ribs nearly to his spine were wide swaths of pain, and with every jolting stride, they inched a little longer. Arthur’s fingers started to slip.

And then—gone. He looked back, saw Lucius riddled with arrows in front and back. A knight rode past Arthur and hacked the body off his horse, braided forelocks flipping about a face burnished bronze in the gleam of the fires. Beyond on the beach was a hulking Woad hefting a pike like it was a twig; Arthur grabbed the reins of the knight’s horse and yanked them further into the water so the pike flew past the man’s face. Clipped his hair in passing before slashing through Arthur’s now-bared shoulder and tumbling into the river. As the world went soft and hazy, Arthur stared into shocked dark eyes, then looked forward and saw Lancelot’s hands reaching for him.

Just before he passed out, he thanked God for at least granting him that.

* * *

Lancelot counted as he shot into the burning town, mentally crossing off names as knights flew past him. Some shouted the names of the dead as they galloped by, but most kept their heads down and their curses scorching their horses’ manes. There were many more Woads than anyone had predicted, and they were swarming faster and thicker than locusts.

“Arthur and Lucius haven’t shown yet,” called Bedivere. “And someone just said Bercilak’s dead. Those two are going to be the last out.”

Well, Lancelot had eyes. He could see that. He didn’t need some woolly-headed idiot to tell him that. He simply needed to snap off his arrows a little faster, sneer at the Britons who thought they could get anything like the same range, and to see Arthur come charging out. That was all.

Somewhere inside the town, a roof collapsed and the subsequent flare of sparks it threw up painted a bloody wound on the night sky. The heat abruptly intensified, to the point that they had to back up a few paces to calm the horses, and a breeze blew over Gawain’s detached marveling at the Woads, who went among the burning buildings as if they were part-salamander. It wouldn’t surprise Lancelot.

“It’s Arth—fuck! Bastard!” Gawain suddenly spurred forward, but had to pull up when an arrow nearly shaved off his nose. The man next to him—Tristan?—immediately swung around and sent the bowman reeling back with an arrow in each eye.

Lancelot, however, kept going forward, ducking and dodging, until he could finally see what Gawain had seen. And it was startling: Arthur had dropped the reins and was clutching at his horse’s neck, but his grip seemed to be slipping and his whole body was wound around the rictus of pain that was currently serving as his face. Something was wrong with his sight—a broken wagon was dead in his path and he didn’t make any attempt to avoid it; it was sheer chance that his strugglings forced his horse into swerving around it. And into a position where Lancelot could see what was going on.

Lucius was clinging to one side of Arthur, his handholds the stirrup leather and a dagger he’d shoved into Arthur’s back. Long gashes of red seemed to wind around Arthur’s side, then disappeared beneath loose-flapping armor as Arthur writhed, making an effort to twist out the dagger. But Lucius had gotten a better hold on the saddle and was raising himself for another try.

Sinew and wood seared through Lancelot’s fingers before he realized. His arrow, he was momentarily pleased to see, had hit first, though apparently Lucius had proven a tempting target to both sides. Then Lancelot was slapping at his horse with the reins, wishing he could make it leap the distance. The stones rolling in the water beneath, however, were too unsteady a foundation, and so his stallion struggled to make headway.

Water suddenly splashed his face as someone plunged past. Tristan had found a more solid strip of river bottom and caught up with Arthur first. His saber whipped out of the scabbard and high, and Lancelot almost threw one of his swords at the other man. But then he saw Tristan was just slicing Lucius off—the corpse had somehow tangled itself in Arthur’s tack, spreading misery even after death.

“Pike!” Bedivere shouted, pointing. “He’s—shit, he’s throwing it?”

It came on the heels of his cry, but somehow Arthur roused enough to notice and actually dragged _Tristan_ out of the way, though the pike-head tore through his unarmored shoulder. And then, finally, breath suddenly rushing back into his lungs, Lancelot was up beside the two men and catching palmfuls of Arthur’s blood as Arthur collapsed into his arms. He watched Arthur’s eyes briefly focus on him, mouth twitching, and then watched as Arthur’s eyes rolled back to the whites.

“Lancelot!” Gawain had caught up and was battering both Lancelot and what appeared to be a shocked Tristan with his bow. “Tristan! Come on! We can’t hold!”

Bedivere shouted again, but this time, it was because of an arrow in the thigh. Everything was red—his leg, the inferno of a town in front of them, Arthur’s face—and Lancelot at first thought he didn’t feel any more blood coming from the man he was heaving onto his horse. But then he understood. There _was_ blood, and plenty of it: it coated his hands so he couldn’t feel it because it was fresh and thus warm as himself.

He wound an arm around Arthur’s waist and slewed them around, then slashed at his horse with the reins till it was surging the water almost waist-high in its efforts to move. They made the other bank just as the Woads raised their eerie victory keen.

* * *

Dinidan met Tristan with his hawk, bandages, and miraculously, a bowl of clean, hot water.

Now that the fighting was over, Tristan could feel his muscles beginning to make their complaints heard, plus an oddly strong twinge of pain over the back of his hand. He frowned and brought it up to see—after detouring to pet and settle his hawk in the corner—which revealed a long but shallow cut he didn’t remember getting. “You have too many bandages.”

“So I see.” The other man sat down on the cot beside Tristan and nevertheless attended to the wound with the same degree of care he’d bestow upon a more serious injury. Then he paused, fingers filled with wool strips, and shook his head as if just waking. “It didn’t take that long, actually. Maybe a quarter-hour at most between you leaving and then coming back with Arthur.”

Tristan closed his eyes and let himself fall backward, his newly-shortened lock landing to tickle irritably at his nose. He was careful not to move his hand, lest he disturb Dinidan’s work. “What kind of man has an instinct to protect a stranger before himself?”

There wasn’t an answer. He hadn’t been expecting one anyway, since for all his fits of flamboyance, Dinidan was at heart a practical man, and knew better than to feed Tristan’s occasional bouts of pensiveness. Instead, the fingers working over his knuckles smoothed beneath to rub gently at the hollow of his palm, calming and soothing and mind-clearing.

“I think,” Tristan finally said, opening his eyes again. “That we’ve just been transferred to a very different officer.”

“I think that I’m glad for that. I saw that pike come at you,” Dinidan replied, suddenly fierce. And then his mouth came down like a midsummer storm, instantly stirring up the heat inside of Tristan.

It wasn’t the same as the heat of the fires Tristan had just left, and for that, he was extremely grateful. Violence didn’t bother him—looting and burning was a part of any soldier’s life—but whatever had happened on that riverbank was had been beyond mere violence. The tang it left in his mouth was sour like bile and needed very badly to be replaced by Dinidan’s warm, slightly spicy tongue.

The man had been sneaking tidbits from the officers’ stores again. Tristan rolled around till he was fully under Dinidan and Dinidan was fully on the bed, fisting his fingers in Dinidan’s hair so he could return the deep, teeth-licking favor and figure out exactly what Dinidan had taken this time. That intensified the flavor, but the identification still eluded Tristan.

Dinidan abruptly slowed and drew away, pushing himself up on elbows. For once, he looked deadly serious. “Are we still under Arthur?”

Tristan shrugged and felt the cold ache start to spread through him once more. It wasn’t completely fatigue, he thought, and then he buried that thought by pulling Dinidan down.

His frenzy was contagious and soon rough, calloused hands were stripping the uncleaned armor from him, peeling it away so a ravenous mouth could scrape at the dried sweat that had built up beneath Tristan’s clothes. Tristan hissed, bucked at the random hard-soft caresses, then grabbed at Dinidan’s wrists and forced them down his sides, between his legs. He didn’t want to have the time to think right now.

Dinidan obliged him, fumbling oil from the packs stowed below the cot and then pressing his face into Tristan’s neck while his hands pressed Tristan’s knees apart. One breath and one finger, two breaths and Tristan’s hands were falling away to grip at the cot frame, three and Dinidan was lifting his hips and whispering to calm down, to wait, to not break the wood. Still too slow—Tristan reached, but his wrists were pinned to the side as Dinidan jerked and pushed till Tristan thought his hips would have to split in half. He swallowed and felt that small motion travel all the way down his spine to the muscles trying to stretch around Dinidan’s cock.

Tristan opened his mouth to say something and found himself being kissed senseless, softly and slowly. “Shhh. I’ll ride you, but I won’t break you,” Dinidan whispered. “Quiet. Or we’ll wake your bird again.”

As if Tristan was the only one who caressed and petted her. But when he tried to tell Dinidan so, he found his mouth taken again, and again, until finally he gave in. Let Dinidan have him till he couldn’t last any longer and broke himself, and then let Dinidan curl round him while he put the pieces back together.

* * *

“You tell him.” Arms folded over his chest, Galahad silently dared Gawain to protest.

Of all times…Gawain dropped his polite face, which was rapidly developing cracks anyway, and glared. “Don’t be a child. I have to go round up all the knights that were there and make sure everyone says it was Woads who tore up Lucius Cornelius’ body. The other troop leaders are busy. Seeing to their _men_ , and probably spreading ridiculous rumors.”

Galahad snarled and rumpled his hands over his face, then made a few forceful but useless gestures. “Are they so ridiculous? You heard what the surgeon said—”

“Damn it, Galahad, I know! You think you’re the only one that wants to panic? Well, you’re not. But we’re in Woad territory and we can’t panic, and someone has to tell Lancelot before he explodes.” As a final flourish, Gawain slapped aside the tent flap to reveal…

…Paullus standing across the way, conducting a conversation in tones of low urgency with a Lancelot that was haggard and pale except for his brilliantly raging eyes. And the restless clench-unclench of his fingers, which were still caked with Arthur’s blood.

For a moment, Gawain could see why Galahad might be so reluctant. Lancelot did look like he was about to eat raw anyone that tried to talk to him, and even Paullus, who was a hardened, stolid soldier by anyone’s measure, seemed a bit wary around him.

But this was wartime, and no one was spared the unpleasantries. The surgeon had flat-out refused to explain himself, due to the monotone, rasping threat of a motivating speech that Lancelot had delivered just prior to turning over Arthur to the man. No one else was around that knew both Arthur or Lancelot very well. And Galahad could on occasion be surprisingly tactful, so Lancelot was marginally less likely to kill him. Gawain hoped.

In point of fact, Gawain hoped a lot of things. He hoped the surgeon didn’t know what he was talking about, because Arthur was the best commander Gawain had ever had, and the only one he trusted. He hoped Lancelot wouldn’t hare off and do something stupid, both because the man was a friend and because they couldn’t afford to lose both Lancelot and Arthur. And he hoped that this campaign wouldn’t become any worse than it already was, because as the years went by, he was losing more and more of his ability to shrug off Roman debacles. It endangered too many people he didn’t want to die.

“All right, all right,” Galahad said, surprisingly enough since it usually took longer to talk him round. “But promise me you’ll steal an officer’s sword for my grave.”

“Don’t joke about that.” Lancelot had seen them, Gawain noted, and was waiting impatiently for information. In another moment, he would probably tell Paullus to go fuck a pole and come over to see for himself.

Galahad started to say something, stopped, and walked around Gawain. His hand briefly fell on Gawain’s shoulder, an innocuous-enough gesture, but Gawain understand and left the man to it. If everything didn’t unravel even further, he’d make it up to Galahad later.

If the reclamation of the river didn’t end up a mess. Now the Woads had tenuous control of that lifeline, and Ambrosius was not going to be happy when he got done with his battles only to find his subordinates had been literally stabbing each other in the back.

Gawain wasn’t normally a vengeful man, but at the moment, he was regretting he hadn’t had time to put one more arrow into Lucius Cornelius.

Thankfully, that useless piece of horse-shit fought terribly and so he hadn’t managed to inflict fatal or crippling injuries on Arthur. His dagger had slashed and slashed and then gotten stuck in a rib, which had kept it from hitting vital organs, the surgeon had said. But those cuts were long and deep in their own right, and coupled with Arthur’s shoulder, he’d lost too much blood. Chipped shoulderblade, a few dislocated ribs because of how hard he’d fought Lucius, and too many stitches to count in his back. When Gawain had ducked in to see for himself, he’d thought at first that he was looking at a corpse, and had almost punched the surgeon for playing such a cruel trick.

If Arthur survived the next night and day, if he didn’t catch fever, if he woke up soon, then he might be all right. But with all the blood lost…and at that point, the surgeon had simply shook his head. Gawain had suddenly seen why Lancelot might want to slam the man’s head up a horse’s ass.

Of course, it was all a moot point if Ambrosius wasn’t satisfied with their explanation and decided to try them for murder. Problem was, no one except Arthur and Lucius knew exactly what had touched off Lucius’ crazed assault on Arthur; they could piece together bits of story, but ultimately, it all depended on whether Ambrosius wanted to believe what Arthur had to say. _When_ Arthur woke up.

And when Gawain’s thoughts were going in circles, then it was time for him to get to work. He reset his shoulders and prepared for the first sleepless night in what was probably going to be many.

* * *

Galahad could be calm, and careful, and restrained. It would have surprised Lancelot a good deal if he had been able to care at all. But he didn’t, and so he merely put up with it, absorbing what he needed to know, until they let him in. Then he scowled and glared and snapped sharp little slivers of sarcasm till they backed out.

They had Arthur lying on his stomach so the stitches on his back were visible in all their horrific glory. Someone hadn’t done a perfect job of washing him afterward, for Lancelot could see specks of blood still clinging to the wounds. He looked around till he found some clean water and a decent rag, which he soaked in the bowl while he perched on the side of the bed. Then, very calmly and carefully and gently, Lancelot wiped off the blood.

After he was done, he dried off Arthur and covered him with a light sheet, then finally got around to scrubbing himself free of all the gore. Somewhere in the middle of that, the canvas rustled in a way that let him know they’d finally, truly left him alone with Arthur.

“You fucking idiot.”

The words should’ve smashed against the mattress, Lancelot spat them out so hard. And then his shoulders started to shake, and his hips rolled him off the cat so his knees hit painfully on the floor, and he had to lay his forehead against the cot-frame because otherwise he couldn’t have stilled himself enough to continue speaking.

“You idiot. You knew he’d try to kill you. You told me so. And I told you back, and you rode away despite that.”

Arthur’s hand was only an inch from Lancelot’s eyes, so he could see how careless the bastard doctors had been. He poked out a finger and shifted Arthur’s so they weren’t haphazardly crumpled against the cot.

“Sometimes I want to strangle you so badly. I want to hit you until your stupid mind realizes that maybe the army or the town or the anything else isn’t worth the cost. Isn’t worth _you_ , you blind jackass.”

Such pale, pale skin. And the odd thing was, Lancelot could still see Arthur’s tan. A warm gold-brown earned honestly from working the same or longer hours than his men did, only now it was nothing more than a transparent veil over sluggish bluish, greenish, purplish veins and a white that rivaled despair for iciness.

“Arthur—damn you, don’t do this. Stop doing this. Or at least let me—it wouldn’t be forcing me, you hypocrite. You do things you hate all the time, and willingly.”

The cot was beginning to shake from the strength of Lancelot’s hold on its frame. He glanced up, but there was no reaction from Arthur. Still, it’d not be a good idea to jar the man. So Lancelot breathed and tried, breathed deeper and tried again, and then his willed relaxation suddenly went through him in an agonizingly intense wave. He slumped, hard, and couldn’t find the energy to lift himself again.

“I’m sorry. You’re not even awake to hear this. I’m sorry and you’re unconscious. I’m apologizing to you, in actual words, and you’re not listening. Damned idiot.”

Lancelot wasn’t a man of any religion because as far as he could see, it had nothing to offer him that the world couldn’t top. Why worry about the next life when this one was hard enough?

But he found himself praying now. First starting with the old, half-remembered ones of his childhood—he dug out his old charm and folded it into Arthur’s hand, clasping his own around it—and then moving on to the soldiers’ favorites. Mithras. Mars. The many varied shades of supposed divinity that he’d run across, heard about during his life. And near the end, when desperation was a tight blanket over him, he even tried the fragments of Christian prayer he’d overheard Arthur mouth.

None of them worked. It shouldn’t have surprised him, much less hurt him, but nevertheless it did and his temper rose. But all he needed was one look at Arthur’s slack face to utterly lose his anger.

“Arthur, Arthur. Wake up. You have to. I’m asking you, please wake up. Live—you’re stubborn as steel about everything else, so why not this? Live and open your eyes and don’t make me know what it’s like to have you die. Please.”

So Lancelot prayed to Arthur, and for once the words came easily because he didn’t need to struggle to remember. For once the words settled lightly on his tongue because he didn’t need to force a feeling of reverence. And Arthur laid there, white and still like a marble sculpture.

The very front of the tent rustled. But whoever it was stopped in the outer compartment. “Ah…Lancelot?” Galahad called.

Lancelot ignored him and sat up on his knees, leaning over to smooth Arthur’s arm so it rested easily by his head. Then he bent and pressed the back of Arthur’s hand to his lips. “Don’t leave. Please,” he whispered.

“Lancelot—” Galahad pushed open the flaps and came to a sudden halt, probably staring. Well, let him stare.

Arthur’s eyelid twitched.

Lancelot stared.


	4. Siege

“The good thing is, if we couldn’t hold the town, then neither can the Woads. They couldn’t build proper fortifications if someone whipped them into doing it.” Morning was creeping up on Perceval’s left shoulder, and it showed a man who had fatigue crusted at the corners of his eyes and day-old gore beneath his nails.

Though to be honest, all the other knights looked equally bad, and Gawain didn’t exempt himself from that observation. Almost no one in camp had gone to bed for very long, except for the dead and the critically wounded—everyone else could only catch at most an hour’s rest before they were needed for some undertaking. Squeezing two armies into a camp built for one wasn’t easy in the best of times, and it was made even more difficult by Woads trying to provoke skirmishes around the perimeter. Thanks to Lucius’ idiocy, the town-side of the river had been lost, and the last thing the Roman forces needed was to lose the other bank.

“It would’ve been better if we’d gone to the town,” Urien muttered, ragging at his filthy hair with his hand. From the freshness of the blood on his hands, he’d probably just come from the sick tents. “Now we’re cut off from Ambrosius.”

“We would’ve been that anyway if we’d gone the other way,” Bedivere growled, slumping over the table. Then he hastily caught a clump of mud before it hit the maps spilled across the top. Looking sheepish, he shrugged and wiped his hand on his knee. “Well, ruined maps would be a sorry welcome for Arthur when he gets back on his feet.”

That produced a brief relaxation of the men gathered in Arthur’s tent, but even as they laughed, they sounded hollow. Ground thin and brittle. Gawain found himself glancing at the entrance, not sure whether he should be cursing Galahad for being so slow or Lancelot for being so damned self-involved right when they could least afford him to be. Even if Galahad had had to knock Lancelot out and drag him back, the two of them should’ve returned by now.

“You should have seen it,” Bedivere went on, mouth in a soured twist. He slowly and deliberately cracked his knuckles, the way he always did before smashing into a brawl. “Not even a fence around the place. It would’ve taken the Christian God to save that town. And Lucius Cornelius just—he must have been mad.”

Perceval sighed and raised his hand before Urien could reply. “It’s of no consequence now. Paullus sent word by way of Lancelot that he wants volunteer couriers. We have to retake that town and get out of this camp before supplies run out, and to do that, we need Ambrosius.”

“We don’t only need the fastest riders, but also ones that can get past the Woads without being detected,” Gawain broke in, deeming it time that he regained control of the discussion. It wasn’t his usual role and he was happy with that arrangement, but with Arthur down, Bercilak dead and Lancelot preoccupied there wasn’t any other cavalry officer with either an even temper or a sense of diplomacy.

And Lancelot was intelligent enough to realize when tact might be needed, even if he didn’t always employ it. Gawain, on the other hand, was mostly depending on instinct and the other knights’ inability to disguise their emotions very well.

Though Perceval rarely ever tried, and certainly not when he was being contemptuous. He straightened up so he could look down his broken, bumpy nose as if he not only knew what Gawain was thinking, but had already seen it fail a thousand times before. Which would be impressive if he did in fact know, because Gawain actually didn’t yet have an idea.

“My men can do it.” Owein, a dark-skinned rangy silence in the corner, unfolded himself and stepped into the light. “Dinidan and Geraint’s horses are fresh. They can make Ambrosius’ camp in a day. A day and a half at most.”

Urien glanced over, but remained studiously blank-faced, while Bedivere stared with broken-willed eyes Gawain had only seen in the most desperate of the desperate. Though a good enough troop leader, Bedivere wasn’t terribly distinguished for either his intelligence or his cunning, or really anything except being one of the few knights that had seen Arthur grow up. He actually reminded Gawain more of a hound than anything: a strong, fighting brute that early on latched to a leader and never learned how to do without. And Arthur wasn’t here…

Perceval flicked his eyes at Owein, then pivoted on one heel and spat at the tent flaps.

He was being considerate of Arthur’s furniture, but Gawain still wanted to smack Perceval’s narrow head into the table. As if they really had the time or the energy to spare for that kind of nonsense. “All right, send them out as soon as possible. I’ll tell Paullus and have them issued passes,” Gawain replied to Owein, though he was watching Perceval.

“Tell him to seal the message, too, so we’ll know—” Perceval started to mutter.

Several things crashed together at once: Owein, expression snapping to raging, slamming into Urien who held him back, Perceval laughing half-hysterically and knocking against Bedivere, and—

“—Perceval, your mouth is so large that I think it’d be a perfect fit for one of my swords. I could use a new scabbard.” A hand slapped aside the canvas, and a moment later, Lancelot ducked in with challenge in his face and arrogance armoring him better than steel. He stared Perceval into sitting, then turned to Gawain and nicely asked, “So, what did I miss?”

* * *

“Listen, we’ve let you—”

“Shut up, Galahad.” Interfering nosy bastard, Lancelot thought, but only absently because every particle of himself was focused on the slight tic of a single muscle. Arthur’s eyelashes were starting to flutter—first one eye, and then the other.

Behind them, Galahad made a frustrated growling and flopped into the chair Lancelot hadn’t used. He probably threw up his hands as well, but Lancelot didn’t bother to check the accuracy of that prediction.

Slowly, so slowly Lancelot’s vision began to blacken because he didn’t dare breathe, Arthur opened his eyes. At first they were dark, all pupil, but then awareness crept in and he focused. Blinked and refocused.

And suddenly a hard shudder slashed through Lancelot, making him go limp against the side of the bed. He felt as if there’d been a ton of lead suspended above him by only the fragile thread of a spiderweb, and somehow that thread had held long enough for him to escape. “Arthur…”

“You’ve been here all night,” Galahad muttered, sounding exhausted. “We need you to—oh. Oh—shit—ah—”

“‘Why, yes, Lancelot, I’ll go and get the surgeon. And some breakfast for you two while I’m up.’” Lancelot sucked in a long breath and pinched himself, waiting for his vision and mind to clear so he could stare again at a conscious Arthur. Only then did he turn around and glower at Galahad. “ _Now_.”

The other man lost some of the shock whitening his face and stood up, flipping a derisive hand at Lancelot. When he spoke, however, his tone was nearly as relieved as Lancelot felt. “You know, I’m not sure I want to leave him with you…”

“Don’t make me kick you out,” Lancelot hissed. Then he twisted back just in time to see a faint smile on Arthur’s face.

Arthur licked at his lips, tried to say something, but his throat was dry—of course it was dry; he’d nearly bled out—and all that came was the ghost of croak. And then the fool tried to lift himself, so Lancelot had to watch while the skin around Arthur’s lips went almost transparent with pain and the stitches in Arthur’s back strained.

He grabbed for Arthur and did his best to push the man back down without touching an injury, though that was difficult. As he did, he took back his charm. “Don’t get up, you idiot. I don’t want to wait for you to come out of another faint.”

More raspy noises from Arthur. After a bit of poking about, Lancelot found a few flagons and a cup. He watered down the wine till it was little more than flavored water, then sat down on the edge of the cot. Meanwhile, Arthur had apparently forgotten about his shoulder and had tried rolling himself upright, only to hiss and scratch his nails deep into the sheets.

Well, if the man wanted to get up…sometimes Lancelot wondered why everyone called him stubborn, because from where he was sitting, Arthur had an equally recalcitrant streak in him. Sighing pointedly, Lancelot set aside the wine and helped Arthur sit up. He started to hand over the wine, but after seeing how Arthur’s wrists nearly dropped to the mattress with the effort of holding the glass, he took it back and held it for Arthur.

As Arthur drank, he swayed and shivered like a weakling lamb born too early. It hurt to watch, and not only because Lancelot was still reeling from the thought of Arthur dead, but also because he’d never seen Arthur this frail before. Ever. Despite everything, it had never been Arthur who’d been injured—not badly enough to keep him from standing back up. All around, knights would go down to war and sickness and sometimes other things, but Arthur had always escaped that. Even Lancelot had been down in the sick tents a few times, but not Arthur.

“Thank you.” Typical that that would be Arthur’s first words. And typical that Lancelot had been hoping for something different.

When Lancelot put down the half-empty glass, he noticed his hands were shaking. Irritably rubbing them on his legs, he turned to see Arthur gingerly testing his hurt shoulder. “Do you ever stop?”

“It’s already morning? How long have I been out?” Arthur glanced past Lancelot at the few stray beams of light that were stealing in, then leaned back. A mistake on his part—he jerked himself to a stop and grabbed at the sheets, eyes closed and breathing slow.

Lancelot counted to ten, then to fifteen and twenty and thirty, but Arthur didn’t raise his head. Worried again—almost impossibly, given how weary his nerves were—he reached out and touched Arthur’s undamaged shoulder. “The whole night. They thought you weren’t going to wake.”

“You’re being more tactful than usual.” Arthur still didn’t lift his head, but he did turn it to look directly at Lancelot. His eyes were wet but strangely steady. “You mean they said I’d die.”

Then he started to fall forward and Lancelot panicked, grabbing for him, but Arthur’s arms suddenly came round and pressed them together, warm moisture rubbing between Arthur’s face and Lancelot’s neck and fingertips gouging into Lancelot’s waist. And Lancelot wanted so badly to do the same, needed so badly to that his chest hurt, but wherever he looked to put his hands, there were stitches. In the end, he wound one into Arthur’s hair and clasped the other over Arthur’s hand.

After a moment, Arthur breathed. Shallowly, roughly, but it gave him control and he was able to move without jarring his injuries. His fingers curled around Lancelot’s and pulled them up between them so he could roll the knuckles across his lips. His gaze slid up Lancelot, wondering like a newborn’s, making heat unaccountably flush into Lancelot’s cheeks. Then he splayed his fingers and stroked Lancelot’s cheeks. “You’re crying.”

“You’re a bastard. You make me do and say things I wouldn’t for anyone including my own mother.” Lancelot hesitated, concerned about the waxen shade of Arthur’s skin, but then the need scraped angrily against his ribs and he ducked in. Kissed Arthur till the other man had him by the hair and shoulder and was kissing him back, taking it over as if nothing had changed.

Footsteps. Lancelot’s hand being foolish and forgetful and landing on Arthur’s back. They broke apart far too soon, and then Lancelot had to sit back when he steadied Arthur lest the damnable surgeon walk in on something his pathetic little mind couldn’t encompass.

Whoever it was paused just outside. “Lancelot? The others are meeting, and Paullus is getting impatient.”

Sometimes Galahad could be surprisingly thoughtful. Shame that the man was so damned careless about it, Lancelot grumbled to himself as he watched Arthur’s attention shift. Before the other man could try anything, Lancelot took Arthur by the forearms and made him twist around to lie down. “I’ll take care of it. I promise not to kill anyone, and I’ll come right back so you can tell me how tactless I was.”

Arthur went, though slowly. But when Lancelot started to go, Arthur reached for him. The gesture faltered due to lack of strength, and so what was supposed to be a grab ended up being only a grazing of fingertips over the back of Lancelot’s hand, but it held him back as firmly as an iron chain.

“I almost died?” Arthur asked, staring up at him. That was when Lancelot realized just how much the world had shaken.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Lancelot’s tongue replied, thick as a board and about as smart. He paused a moment longer, trying to think of something better to say, but all that came out of that was his hand straying to cup Arthur’s chin.

Eyelashes fluttering, Arthur snorted and let his head fall. His breathing slowed and his muscles rippled out their tension from neck down the spine, momentarily throwing the ragged bits of thread into sharp relief. As gently as he could, Lancelot set Arthur’s head back on the pillow. He stayed a fraction longer to make certain that Arthur was only sleeping and had not passed out a second time before he let in Galahad and the surgeon.

Galahad mumbled nasty little things and scuffled his heels in the dirt while Lancelot revised his warnings to the doctor, but he was also trying to peek at Arthur, so Lancelot felt a little more kindly disposed toward his fellow knight. And when they walked in on Perceval’s attempt to make war inside as well as outside, Galahad was nice enough to snap a fist into the side of the man’s head, which saved Lancelot the trouble.

“Shut up and sit down,” Lancelot ordered, gazing round at the various degrees of despair, frustration and fear he saw. “Gawain?”

“Paullus is sending for Ambrosius, and Owein volunteered Dinidan and Geraint. Scouts say there’s too many Woads waiting around for us to march back, so until the other army shows, we’re going to try and hold out here,” the other man summarized. He flipped a hand at Perceval. “And he’s being a bit of a prick.”

Perceval surged back to his feet, and so did Owein, apparently feeling cheated out of his shot at the man. Of course he had been, but unfortunately necessity called for solidarity, and solidarity didn’t arise out of allowing knights to clash with each other. So Lancelot stepped between them and hit the table, giving them all something else on which to focus.

He made his statement as firm, clear, and sweet as possible, given the circumstances. “All right. Owein, draw extra rations and weapons for your men, if they’d like them. Perceval, we’re all from Sarmatia, all knights, and all desperately wanted dead by the Woads. If you don’t understand that, then I’ll toss you over the palisade and let the Britons teach you who’s the more important enemy.”

“And?” The only one actually sitting, Bedivere raised questioning, red-rimmed eyes to Lancelot.

“And—” Somewhat to his embarrassment, Lancelot found his throat closing on him. He swallowed to force it open before he continued. “And Arthur’s woken. So you’ll all behave yourselves because I have no problem with beating you to bloody pulps before he heals enough to be merciful.”

It was morbidly fascinating how everyone’s face sagged in a different way, but all the reactions contained some degree of relief. Even Perceval knew enough to realize he was better off under Arthur than under some other officer, who probably would’ve arranged to have the moody son of a bitch killed in battle by now.

Lancelot flinched away from that thought and hastily moved on to the next bit of business. “Doubtless Paullus will want us to take turns at guard duty, so I want to see a roster. Best archers up during the night, since it’s the Woads’ favorite time to attack.”

Gawain made an uncomfortable cough; it seemed as if he’d been taking on most of the work while Lancelot had been with Arthur—an entire night. Suddenly Lancelot’s shoulders ached and his knees grated out whines, while his vision itched and burned at the weak rays of…yes, morning light filtering through the canvas. He faltered a little, incredulous at himself.

“There’s a bit more,” Gawain said, hesitantly filling the silence that had welled up. “He wants an explanation about Lucius.”

Urien looked perfectly blank. “Heard some Woads had the luck last night.”

“That won’t work, you jackass,” Galahad snapped. “Paullus was on the fucking riverbank with me, watching for Arthur. He saw what we saw.”

“Did any other legionaries?” Lancelot asked, trying to adjust to this new knowledge. His head was starting to pound with a dull, persistent ache and he was fighting it, but it was swiftly beginning to gain ground on him.

Fortunately, Galahad shook his head. “No, by that time all the infantry was too far back to see. But Paullus stayed.”

“So nice of him. Have any of you thought about what advantages he might have from this?” Incredibly enough, Perceval still had the energy for spreading trouble. Lancelot suddenly had a wave of sympathy for Arthur for putting up with this. “He’s a good commander in his own right; why would he agree to splitting armies? And then putting them on separate banks—that’s suicide.”

“Which, of course, is why he’s now in the same shit as us,” Owein drawled. The man’s fingers were tapping and flexing against his hip, like he was feeling for a hilt that wasn’t there.

Perceval instantly rounded on Owein, hissing to beat any snake. Or jealous woman, and women were smarter about how they went about their verbal attacks. “Then Ambrosius. His officers are better generals than he is—that must grate. Not that you’d be worried about that, you—”

“Perceval,” Lancelot snarled. The other man shot him one truculent look too many and Lancelot lost his temper a bit. His sword was out and at Perceval’s throat before anyone else could even reach for their weapons. “If you have anything more to say,” Lancelot said, softly and distinctly, “Then we can go outside and do it.”

It almost looked as if Perceval was going to take him up on that, but at the last moment, Perceval ducked his head. Glanced away and muttered something that Lancelot was going to take as an apology because he very much did not need another complication.

As Lancelot resheathed his sword, Gawain stepped up beside Perceval and took the man firmly by the arm. He nodded to Lancelot, which apparently signaled that he’d handle the bastard. Good. “Owein, go ahead and report to Paullus with your men. Tell him he can come by and have the story straight from Arthur, if he likes. The rest of you have been in sieges before—you know what to do. So go do it.”

* * *

“Because you’re a thieving, honor-less whoreson bastard who’d just as soon kill his own mother as kiss her on the cheek.” Agravaine’s chin took on a pugnacious lift that went well with his overall brainless rudeness.

Dinidan, surprisingly enough, kept his temper. “In that case, I’ll be sure to inform the Woads specially about you,” he answered in the pleasantest tone imaginable. His horse nickered in appreciation and he leaned forward to scratch between its ears, smiling all the while.

That probably wasn’t wise, as Tristan didn’t believe Agravaine had a sense of humor or the capacity to recognize sarcasm slapping him in the face, but it was amusing to see Agravaine’s comically horrified recoil. The man actually believed that one, they would turn around and cooperate with an enemy that had taken as many of their friends as of his, and two, that the Woads would give any Sarmatian a fair hearing before killing them. After so many years, it should’ve been clear where the battle-lines were drawn.

And Tristan should’ve given up on finding men that actually understood that. The most ironic part was not that he hadn’t quite, but that he _had_ found a few.

Gawain and Owein came around the corner, deep in conversation. Then they clapped their hands together in a quick squeeze and Owein turned down another path.

“Here comes the message,” Tristan observed.

“Hmm?” Geraint stopped toying with his sweet-heart’s token and stuffed the braided lock of hair back into his clothes. “What?”

If the man couldn’t figure out for himself how Owein had passed the slip of paper to Gawain, then Tristan wasn’t going to tell him. There was no point in distracting Geraint any more than he already was.

Tristan stopped and re-examined that thought. Though he was cynical, he wasn’t usually that bitter about it.

“Are you helping in the diversion?” Dinidan asked, touching Tristan on the shoulder. When Tristan startled, the other man frowned. “The skirmish on the other side that’s going to keep the Woads from noticing us?”

“Oh. I’ll be shooting from the ramparts. They’re trying not to use men that fought last night.” For some reason, Tristan wanted to fidget when he thought about that. It was a routine undertaking, and if anything, he should be feeling annoyed that he wouldn’t be out there killing Woads with the other knights.

He wasn’t going to think about that pike and about Arthur. There was nothing he could do, so it wasn’t worth the waste of energy. Neither was protesting that he could ride better than Geraint when his horse was still glassy-eyed from its exertions last night.

Dinidan glanced at Agravaine, who’d slouched off to tangle with a wary Gawain, then leaned down a bit further and slid his fingers up Tristan’s shoulder. His nails were ragged and caught on Tristan’s collar, but he was careful not to do the same to Tristan’s skin as he stroked just under the chin. “I wish I could look for you, but I’ll be going the opposite way.”

Then he was back up, sitting primly in the saddle and seeming much calmer than Tristan felt. Gawain had finally chased off Agravaine, and now was giving last instructions to Geraint as well as handing over the message for Ambrosius. It was time for Tristan to go; if he jogged, he’d cross the camp just in time.

Instead, he paused a little longer, watching Dinidan.

“Remember not to let the Woads have you. And take care of her, all right? Since I won’t be around to.” A grin, a flourishing farewell bow, and Dinidan clucked his horse around to the gate. High in the sky above them, she suddenly stooped—Tristan belatedly got his arm up in time for his hawk to land.

After a moment, Geraint followed Dinidan, and Gawain tugged at Tristan’s elbow. “Come on. You can drop him off on the way.”

“Her,” Tristan corrected, falling into quickstep pace beside the other man. He concentrated on checking her for any over-frayed feathers or other ailments that might need treating, just in case he’d missed something during his daily morning look-over of her.

“Her. Sorry. I don’t know the slightest thing about birds, other than which I like to eat.” 

It certainly wasn’t the best joke in the world, but Gawain seemed to be genuinely worried about him, so Tristan smiled back. To his surprise, it was a little easier than he’d predicted.

They passed Lancelot after Tristan had safely settled his hawk in his tent; interestingly, Lancelot wasn’t heading for the skirmish, which sounded as if it’d just started. Even more interesting, Gawain didn’t seem shocked in the least that the current cavalry commander wasn’t busy in the field.

“For Arthur?” Tristan murmured.

Blinking, Gawain slowed a bit, then picked up again. “Galahad says he’s still in terrible shape. He could use the help. And—oh, Owein’s commanding the skirmish.”

“Not Lancelot?” Very curious. This diversionary attack was turning out to be helpful in more ways than one, for Tristan had almost forgotten what he truly wanted to think about.

“Lancelot’s overseeing everything, but not actually from the field…” Gawain shrugged. “He’s the best hand-to-hand fighter you’ll ever see. Even edges out Arthur there. And tactics he’ll beat most as well. But strategy—less so.”

Which was unexpected, but only because Tristan hadn’t really thought about it. Upon further reflection, it did make sense. Lancelot seemed to be the kind of personality that would lose himself utterly in a battle, and that would also help explain why he and Arthur seemed so tightly twisted around each other—unusual for such strong individual personalities. “And I suppose he needs Arthur present to focus properly.”

Gawain stifled a laugh and started to reply, but by then they were at the wall and the din of fighting drowned out all words. Tristan nodded a brief thanks to the other man before climbing the nearest set of steps. There he could see the milling mass of Woads, knights and legionaries scuffling just outside the gate, and there his bowfingers started to curl in eagerness. So he obliged them, and faced forward while behind, Dinidan went further and further from him.

* * *

Exhausted by his talk with Paullus, Arthur slumped into the mattress and tried not to think too much on the fighting he could hear. The other officer had filled him in on the situation and on the steps they were taking to deal with it, so he was no longer stewing in ignorance, but nevertheless he could barely stand not to be there. His men were going to battle and he should have been there to lead them, but instead he was confined to a bed, too weak to even lift his head.

He’d almost died. 

Lancelot often called him an idealist, but Arthur hadn’t fully understood all the ramifications—and truth—in that term until now, when he could stare at his hands and know a better stab on Lucius’ part would have stilled that tremor in his fingers. When he could remember the day before and contrast it with today, when he not only knew but believed he could die in battle.

Innocence was a strange thing. Arthur had had death circling him for as long as he could remember, back to that hazy memory of his mother’s tears and halting voice and the letter which meaning he’d had to spell out for himself—his father’s death. He’d seen it in the faces of those he loved and cherished, he’d buried it, he’d caused it—and somehow he’d failed to recognize how easily it could touch him.

Life _was_ short. He had so very little time, and so much still to do.

The screams and thundering clashes were dying down now, Arthur absently noted. Years in the occupation of war had taught him something about reading the air, and it didn’t feel like a defeat. But neither did he feel victory. Instead, he simply felt tired, though he could hardly afford to be.

Lucius had been flawed, and Britain had ground at those flaws till the man had broke. Perhaps he would have still followed the same path regardless of the country, but Arthur was sure Lucius wouldn’t have done it with the kind of insane frenzy that had characterized the last moments of Lucius’ life. The land and the war did have some hand in it, for both were hostile and seething and ready at an instant to turn from fair to foul so a man could never really be at ease in it.

What Arthur feared now, he suddenly saw, was that he’d be affected the same way. Because while Lucius had been a cruel, selfish, thoughtless man, he hadn’t been the kind that Arthur believed would snap so easily. Would be so fragile. And Arthur had believed himself to be strong as well, and had seen that disproved in a handful of bloody moments.

“Rome,” Arthur whispered, staring at his hands. A beautiful city that had, for all its faults, been much kinder to him than Britain. And its cruelties were of a more languid, petty nature, without the overwhelming rawness he found here.

“Arthur? Skirmish is over; it looks like Dinidan and Geraint got away clean, and we didn’t suffer any more deaths—Owein knows what he’s doing. Though the surgeons will have their hands full for a while.” Lancelot tentatively stepped in, bearing what looked like milk and soup. Those he set to the side before perching on the bed. “How was Paullus? Do I need to sleep on the floor here with my swords out tonight?”

He smiled as he said it, but Arthur could see well enough that the other man was serious. There’d been so much pain in Lancelot’s face—the first thing Arthur had seen passing out, and the first he’d seen waking.

Undeserved pain. If Arthur could help it, he’d spare Lancelot the same experience in the future. If he could do anything to avoid seeing Lancelot like that again, he would do it. Starting with calming the man’s fears. “Paullus was surprisingly agreeable. He’ll support my position with Ambrosius.”

“And what did he make you promise him?” Lancelot muttered, unconvinced. He took some care to wipe off his hands on a rag before reaching for Arthur. “If you lean on my legs, I’ll dribble less soup on you.”

With the help, Arthur eased his forearms onto Lancelot’s lap, leaning his head against the man’s side. Then he had to stop and fight down the lightheadedness and black spots in his vision. He was also quite thirsty, he suddenly noticed. “To help him transfer to Asia Minor.”

Lancelot most likely was frowning thoughtfully at that. “Small price.”

“It involves leaving Britain,” Arthur pointed out, still struggling with his dizziness. He heard the sloshing and lifted his head by pressing it against Lancelot’s front, then opened his mouth for the spoon.

Thin, bland stuff. But then, they were under siege, though it hopefully would be a short one, and conservation of food was essential.

“Oh, right. Can’t believe I forgot that,” Lancelot replied, sounding torn between amusement and worry.

The worry apparently won out, because after Arthur had managed to down half the bowl, Lancelot paused to stare hard at him. “You’ve never talked like that before.”

“Like what, Lancelot?” Arthur sighed, feeling sleep draw slow caresses over him that he was hard-put to resist. He didn’t want to argue now.

“Like you hate _here_. As opposed to just the Woads.” Clinking signaled the resumption of feeding, and when Arthur didn’t raise his head quickly enough, Lancelot poked at him with the spoon.

Finishing off the second half of the bowl took nearly all of Arthur’s remaining strength, which served as a fine excuse for putting off his answer. It also made him rather disgusted with himself for acting so pathetically, but he simply couldn’t muster the energy to be more than disgusted. On the other hand, he knew very well that Lancelot wasn’t going to leave without receiving some sort of reply or reassurance.

“Perhaps I do. Being here certainly isn’t having a good effect on my personality. Rome was better for me,” Arthur finally said. He craned his head back so he could see the depth of the concern in Lancelot’s eyes. “I’m sorry about earlier. I spoke too sharply.”

Lancelot went very still, face perfectly smooth. Then the corners of his mouth, the skin around his eyes twitched, and _then_ he suddenly, unexpectedly broke into laughter. His head went down and to the side so Arthur couldn’t see it, and his shoulders heaved till the laughter, hollow to begin with, sobbed into silence.

Arthur concentrated very hard and persuaded his hand to rise to Lancelot’s cheek. Then Lancelot looked at him again and seized his hand so it had to stay there. “You weren’t listening,” Lancelot rasped, smiling like a knife had carved it into his face.

That made little sense, but before Arthur could ask for clarification, Lancelot was holding the glass to his lips. He tried to protest and nearly lost his balance.

“You have to drink. The surgeon said so.” Lancelot essayed another smile. This one was much more natural and it was that more than any doctor’s prescription that convinced Arthur to do so.

In point of fact, it seemed to be a concoction of raw eggs, goat’s milk and wine that didn’t so much sweeten as add a particularly nauseous aftertaste. Arthur barely avoided spitting it back at Lancelot.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Lancelot snorted, pressing fingers against Arthur’s lips till Arthur finished swallowing. “It was going to be fresh horse’s blood and goat liver, but I thought we might want to give you a day.”

“Any other time I wouldn’t mind those, but right now they sound absolutely revolting.” With an effort, Arthur made the stuff stay in his stomach. Then he braced himself for the rest.

Of course, Lancelot could read him like no other man could, and so Lancelot abruptly tipped the glass while Arthur was drinking so Arthur had to down all of it at once. It was probably for the best, given how sickening the thick stuff felt as it coated tongue and throat, but still…Arthur glowered. “You’re enjoying this.”

“What, having you helpless and reliant on my mercy?” Fierce grin, which was more like him. But then Lancelot sobered, wiping at Arthur’s lips with the ball of his thumb. “Not nearly so much as you think,” he murmured. His hand turned to brush knuckles over Arthur’s cheek, along his neck and then down his back, deftly avoiding all the injuries.

Someone called for Lancelot.

He jerked, twisted to face the voice, as did Arthur. Then Lancelot smiled a third time, but this one was humorless and distorted by irony. “When you have to stay still, I have to move,” he said, staring at the canvas walls.

He kissed Arthur twice before he left, once lightly on the forehead and once hard on the lips.

* * *

Walking on the ramparts risked the odd spear or arrow, but it was ultimately more peaceful than sitting around in an uncertain camp or trying to soothe an irritable, restless horse. There was no room to exercise their stallions inside, and outside were always Woads waiting to pike knights out of the saddle, so except for the odd skirmish, they were all trapped within the camp.

A day ago, some enterprising Woads had tried to come up by the ford and drive the Romans back from their water supply, but one of Owein’s men had spotted the attempt and sounded warning well in time. That fight had broken the teeth-grating monotony of huddling, but as it’d also doubled the number of knights in the sick tents, Dagonet didn’t think the good evened out the bad. Certainly it hadn’t done much to help the campfire talk.

Owein and his knights kept themselves busy on the ramparts and away from the others—especially that one named Tristan—taking down any Woad that dared venture into the thin strip of cleared space between the camp walls and the beginning of the forest. Thanks to their efforts, several half-built Briton siege towers now littered that area, and it seemed that the Woads had mostly given up on actually overwhelming the camp, contenting themselves with merely starving out the army. That outcome had done much to improve general opinion of Owein’s knights and had largely removed one source of rumor, another one had soon rushed in to fill the void. Someone was spreading rumors that the infantry wanted to kill off all the cavalry.

“Don’t make sense, so I don’t believe it,” Bors snorted, thumping his back against a pole. He took his time stringing his arrow, then twisted out and shot, startlingly quick for a man of his size. “Half the time we’re the only thing standing between them and a bloody death, so why would they want to kill us?”

“Jealousy?” It was the most common explanation Dagonet had heard.

His…friend rolled his eyes. “Dag. You’re not that thick of a lump.”

“No.” And the most common explanation probably sprung from everyone’s curiosity about why Lucius Cornelius was dead and why Arthur was still bedridden. Having him out, albeit on a stretcher, might have helped morale, but neither Lancelot nor the surgeons seemed inclined to permit that. Which could mean any of several possibilities, but Dagonet suspected it was because Arthur looked so poorly that seeing him would only depress the knights.

“It’s Perceval. I’d bet a barrel of ale against a pile of horse-shit it’s that sour-tongued bastard.” Bors shrugged and shot off another arrow, then dug into the cloth-wrapped bundle between his ankles. When he came up again, he offered Dagonet a choice of slightly moldy bread or a dubious-looking piece of salted pork.

Dagonet took part of the bread and paused his own archery to flick off the black-flecked bits. “Why?”

“Something about dead family.” The pork popped into Bors’ mouth and for the next few moments, periodically reappeared between his teeth. He chewed with his mouth open so Dagonet had a perfect if unwanted view of how salt pork was broken down by chewing. “Which isn’t something to make fun of, but still, that was over there. I can’t even remember my mother and father.”

The other man stopped and stared over the camp, almost morose. “I can’t. And maybe it’s a bad thing, but I don’t think I care too much, either. Got a family here to worry over.”

Thinking over that, Dagonet methodically finished off his lunch. Something whistled from behind and left and he ducked, yanking Bors with him. Over their heads flew a long ash spear, which declined in a graceful arc to nearly pinion Gawain to the ground. He skidded a little as he stopped to stare at it, then shook his head and walked around it.

“Warning much appreciated, Bors,” he called up.

“Should be big enough for you to see yourself without me having to tell you,” Bors bellowed back, though his humor was a bit strained by his relief. He slapped Dagonet on the shoulder, then grabbed Dagonet to him. “Got this one to watch here and half a dozen back with Vanora. Can’t spare my eyes, you know.”

Gawain flapped a hand at Bors, half-heartedly dismissing the jibe. “How about your eyes and Ambrosius? See any riders? Dust clouds?”

Bors shook his head, expression turning gray and grim and tired, like everyone else. “No.”

It’d been nearly a week, more than enough time for the message to reach Ambrosius. If it had indeed reached him, for it’d had to pass through land thickly wooded with the spears and swords and arrows of vengeful, vicious Woads. And no, Dagonet did not believe that the knights sent would have failed for any reason short of death.

Below them, Gawain momentarily let worry crush his face into his hands, but then he lifted his head again. His hand went over and down to tug at a braid as he stared up, lips starting to move.

“There!” A legionary a few yards away suddenly leapt to his feet. He had to duck almost at the same time, due to an arrow coming at him, but he bounced back as soon as possible and pointed. “There!”

Gawain ran for the steps and clawed up them, rushing past Dagonet and Bors. He nearly threw himself over the side staring, and then he grinned. Backstepped almost as fast as he’d come up, yelling for men. They needed to get more archers up, and they needed to get ready to open the gates.

* * *

“…and he’s planning on taking the town tonight,” Geraint panted, grey-faced and shaking with exhaustion. Though he didn’t seem to have any serious injuries, he could barely hold himself in the saddle. His horse had its head tucked between its knees and flecked the people gathered around it with lather every time it heaved another breath. “Ambrosius—”

“Let the man down. Move, _move_. Back to your posts! Now, you prick-headed louts!” Paullus shoved his way through the small crowd, Lancelot following closely behind. Slowly, with many worn-out smiles, people started to disperse.

Galahad wasn’t about to leave, so he quickly snatched the reins to Geraint’s horse, holding it while the other knight dismounted. Nearly fell onto Lancelot and Gawain, to be more accurate. Then Galahad tossed the reins to a departing knight and followed as Geraint was swept into the nearest tent.

Someone tossed Geraint a waterskin and he drained the bulge out of it before he reported. “We got to Ambrosius in a day, but he was busy smoking Woads out of a cave. He’s headed this way—be here by night. Marching in the dark so his dust doesn’t give him away.”

“He better hurry, because the Woad scouts aren’t _that_ simple-minded,” Paullus muttered, wiping a rag over his brow. “What else?”

“He’s coming up the other side. Going to drive the Woads from the town towards us—secure that, then cross to lift the siege here. Wants us to join him on the other side.” Geraint took another one long swig of water and collapsed against the tentpole. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and he looked as if he wanted to lie down and never wake up again.

Lancelot snorted and muttered very quietly in Sarmatian: “Finally. We never should have split in the first place.”

Though he clearly didn’t understand the meaning, Paullus seemed to gather the tone well enough. He shot Lancelot a hard look, then turned back to Geraint. “Well done. On behalf of the army, I thank you. But…”

Something cold and dreadful made Galahad glance over his shoulder. Silent as the passage of time, Tristan was ducking into the tent, eyes fixed with unnatural intensity on Geraint. To his credit, Geraint had also noticed—and Gawain, Galahad noted—and was forcing himself to meet Tristan’s eyes, though the effort cost him much.

“…weren’t there two of you?” Paullus asked.

Geraint flinched, but he kept watching Tristan. “It was harder to get back. The Woads knew we were coming—we—they were on our heels. Dinidan and I let them overhear us and think the message was that Ambrosius wasn’t coming till later. And—his horse took a bad leap, broke its leg and rolled on him. He cut his throat so the Woads wouldn’t take him.

Tristan was very still, face very emotionless, eyes very cool and smooth. But there was something uneasy and disturbing rippling from him, which even Paullus seemed to feel, though he obviously didn’t have a clue as to the cause. He stepped back and sighed, then turned away. “My condolences for your comrade.”

It didn’t seem as Geraint could speak, so frozen was he, and no one else wanted to. Finally Lancelot nodded and moved aside, quietly suggesting that Paullus leave. “Thank you.”

It was a commendable imitation of politeness. Galahad had to say, he was impressed. He didn’t think that Lancelot had had it in him; Arthur usually handled all the forced pleasantries. But then, Arthur had never been down for this long before, and they were all struggling to deal with that.

Paullus was rather good himself, for he apparently understood that anything else was solely knights’ business. After another curt nod, he left, cloak swishing above mud-clotted boots.

And then Tristan was across the space, still silent except for the creak and rasp of his armor, and he was grabbing for Geraint’s throat. Geraint went down to his knees, gasping and hitting weakly at the other man’s arms while Gawain and Lancelot belatedly fought Tristan back. They had to pry him off finger by finger.

“Galahad, damn it—” Lancelot hissed, jerking his head.

“Oh. Right.” Galahad shook himself free of the strange dreaminess that had taken him and got Geraint by the waist, pulling him away from Tristan. “Geraint?”

Who was still staring at Tristan, who’d gone limp in Gawain’s hold. “There wasn’t any time!” Geraint hissed.

“You couldn’t even bring back his sword.” For the first time during the whole encounter, Tristan showed a touch of feeling: his lip curled back from his teeth in seething contempt. Then he shook Gawain off and walked out.

“I…think I might have missed a few details,” Lancelot said, curiously eying the remaining men.

Gawain gave Lancelot an uncharacteristic glare before going after Tristan. Meanwhile, Geraint painfully got to his feet and left, though in the other direction. So Lancelot looked at Galahad, as if he was supposed to keep track of this sort of thing for the man.

“What?” Well, if Lancelot wasn’t going to poke his head out of Arthur’s tent once in a while, Galahad didn’t see the point in making it easy for him.

“Tristan and Dinidan?” The other man flicked his fingers in a meaningful gesture.

With a sigh, Galahad straightened up and stretched, then rubbed at his eyes. He hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time since the siege had started, and he was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on the present. “Yes. I think. You should ask Gawain, really. He talked more to them.”

“War’s a bad time and place for it,” was Lancelot’s obscure remark. His eyes were so bloodshot Galahad couldn’t see any white, and the edge to his sarcasm was duller than usual. “Let Gawain know he’s got a half-hour to settle down his friend. We’ve too much to do to spare more time than that.”

“And where are you going?” Galahad asked, following the other man outside.

The side of Lancelot’s mouth that Galahad could see almost smiled, and for a moment Lancelot was lighthearted. “I’m going to let Arthur know the news, and to see what he wants done.”

* * *

Tristan was on the ramparts, methodically emptying his quiver into the Woads slipping through the woods just beyond. He was conscious of everything that he was doing, and had been since Geraint had confessed the news. He was being very careful about his aim, since they were rapidly running out of arrows, and it would be difficult to get more until the siege was lifted. Consequently, he had no idea why Gawain was yelling at him.

“Tristan! Get back here! You’re too exposed—at least lean down so you’re not such a clear target. Tristan!” The other man was hunched behind a taller portion of the palisade, occasionally peeking out to watch the spears and arrows come flying in.

Most of them were already near the end of their range when they reached the wall, and they pattered harmlessly around Tristan. A few, powered by stronger men or perhaps better bows, thwacked deep into the lumber of the ramparts, but so far none had come close to hitting him. He aimed at another shadow and watched in deep satisfaction as it was caught in mid-leap.

“Leave him alone, Gawain,” called a familiar voice. Agravaine. “If he wants to have a contest with the Woads, why not? The worst that can happen is that he’ll get killed.”

The legionaries were probably wondering what was going on, since the entire argument was being conducted in Sarmatian, and a fairly obscure tongue at that. As far as geography went, Agravaine and Gawain both came from a region that were about as far from Rome as Tristan’s homeland, though from different directions.

Interesting how his mind was still thinking, Tristan observed. From the woods came flying a glint of silver-white, and he could almost track the thoughts that led to the conclusion: a spear thrown at him. It was going to hit his side.

It would have, except Gawain grew impatient and rushed Tristan, dragging them both across the narrow platform to the next raised part of the wall. There they were better-shielded, but it was harder to get a clear shot. “Move.”

“No.” Gawain’s stance made it clear he meant it, too. “And Agravaine? If you’re so eager, why don’t you come up here and show everyone how to do it?”

“Go fuck—” Scuffling sounds.

“Try to watch your mouth,” Percival said, words dropping into one of those odd lulls that occurred during any prolonged battle. “I almost thought you were going to insult an officer, and you know that’s a flogging offense.”

That was surprising, but more so for Gawain than for Tristan, who couldn’t work up the energy to care about such stupidity anymore. As soon as he saw Gawain’s eyes flick downwards, Tristan tried to shove past the other man.

Gawain, however, had better reflexes than Tristan had given him credit for, and caught Tristan. “ _No_ , you lunatic. You’re trying to get yourself killed.”

“Really? It looked like it was the Woads doing the dying.” Tristan abruptly lifted his bow and arrow above the wall and blindly shot. Luck, it seemed, refused to desert him, for a short, sharp cry followed that.

Something hard and feral twisted at Gawain’s mouth and neck so he turned away to struggle with it. But then he whipped back around and stepped forward, eyes suddenly blazing, all his earlier mildness burning away. “And Dinidan. He’s dead. _Dead_. And I’m sorry, but that’s what happens. No, there’s no body to bury, so now there’s only his name to last beyond him, and who’s going to make sure of that?”

“And why should his name be remembered?” Tristan snapped before he could help it. His hand lashed out and caught on the rough wood of the wall. “Why should it be linked to this pointless war that’s not even ours?”

“What about your hawk? What about your horse? What about him? Tell me now whether you’d think he’d be happy to see you so soon after him.” Gawain hit out at the palisade, a few inches from Tristan’s hand. “Who’s going to see to your burial? I don’t know you that well. Somehow I don’t think anyone else does, either.”

“So live on? I have to die sometime.” And Tristan would have added more, only something flicked at the edge of his sight and instinct threw him forward to seize Gawain. They barely avoided the huge bolt that ripped through and stuck in the wall, steel head jutting out where Gawain had been before.

Breathing hard, Gawain stared at it with wide eyes. “Shit. They got Lucius’ siege catapults working.” His shoulders snap-rolled with the release of tension, and he looked over his shoulder, grim and resigned. “Look, do what you want. But not here. Not in front of everyone. I’ll kill you myself before I let you make things worse.”

“Is that what you hold onto?” The first flood of pain and fury and nerves was beginning to subside—Tristan fought against it, not wanting it to be so easy, not wanting all he had left of Dinidan slip away, but he’d spent too long perfecting his calm. And he was _thinking_ now that Gawain had broken his focus: Dinidan would still have a burial and a marker in the graveyard that someone would have to oversee, knights like Agravaine were still around and remembering the wrong part of history, and—

\--he wanted to live. He wanted to and hated himself for it, because it seemed as if he were breaking a trust. But if he died here, he wouldn’t receive a warm welcome on the other side, that much he knew.

“I hold onto what I can, do what I can. I don’t pretend that it’s all the same, but I won’t make it so easy for them. It’s not my war, but it’s my death.” Gawain jerked his hand at the Woads on the other side of the wall.

Tristan looked at the other man and saw tired, frayed compassion. Then he nodded, feeling the same fatigue settle throughout him, and took out another arrow. He didn’t have the energy to fight on two fronts at once, so he grudgingly yielded the one. “Move. I’ll provide an honor guard to the lands of the dead, even if I can’t bury him.”

After a moment, Gawain did so. He started to go down, but stopped when Perceval came up, bow already in hand. Perceval eyed the both of them, faintly amused. “I have respect for the grieving. Agravaine’s a lout.”

“And you’re better?” Gawain snorted, ducking past.

“I’m patient. I can wait,” came the low, vicious reply. Then Perceval ceased paying attention to them and concentrated on shooting.

He’d have a long wait, Tristan promised. Because now Tristan couldn’t leave Britain. If he couldn’t have Dinidan’s body to properly lay to rest, then he could spill enough Woad blood to hallow the whole land for him.


	5. Regrouping

The fighting around the walls intensified as night fell, as if the Woads knew they weren’t going to have much longer. It might have been simpler if that really was the case and the Britons simply slipped off before Ambrosius’ approach, but only in practical terms. Politically speaking, the Woads had to stay around because that way, Ambrosius would be more inclined to see this as a near-disaster than as a colossal example of incompetence exhibited by his subordinates. And in turn, that meant that he’d be more likely to come down on Arthur’s side.

But praying for the Woads to stay meant more hours of shooting at lightning-swift shadows and ducking arrows, of watching knights and legionaries fall all around, of sleeping so little that soon Lancelot had trouble telling the difference between that and waking. Noise grew blurry and dim, so he had to ask men shouting into his face to repeat themselves, and sight smeared so the world was more a patchwork of colored blobs than clear and distinct shapes.

One brown angular splotch detached itself from the rest and limped up to him; he squinted and willed his eyes to focus till Gawain appeared. “It’s been night for an hour now,” the other man said.

“I know.” There was something to come after that, but by the time Lancelot finished saying the first sentence, the second had vanished from his mind. He wanted very badly to slump against the nearest post, but Gawain’s presence reminded him that he couldn’t do that. Not while he was the one everyone looked to.

How Arthur managed to stand it every day, all days, without a break, Lancelot couldn’t begin to understand. It should’ve broken the man long before this.

“Is Arthur better?” Gawain asked.

Startled, Lancelot gave him a sharp look, but it seemed to be only coincidence. “Yes.”

Relatively speaking, because Arthur still had difficulty just sitting up without help. He choked down horse’s blood—from Lancelot’s and his own stallion—and bits of liver from their rapidly dwindling herd of goats, and as a result, the color was slowly creeping back into his face. But his skin still looked like delicate white tissue-cloth, and his lips were ragged from biting against the pain. When Lancelot kissed Arthur, he tasted old stale blood.

And the tang of change, which was still too new for Lancelot to decide whether it would be sweet or sour. He hoped for the former, somehow, with some particle of optimism that had managed to survive the years, but at the same time, he doubted it. For one, Arthur had formerly talked of Rome as a beautiful gold idea he wanted to plant in British soil, but now a trace of wistfulness had crept in alongside the dreaminess. He wasn’t looking to stay in Britain now, and Lancelot didn’t have the energy to face what that might mean.

But before Arthur had also looked at Lancelot with something bound up in his eyes, something restrained that Lancelot couldn’t quite figure out. It’d been why he had always pushed, always fought and lashed out even though every wince Arthur made carved itself inside Lancelot as well. He’d thought it the condemnations of the Christian faith, the strictures of proper Roman behavior that Arthur imposed on himself despite his usage of the occasional Sarmatian custom, like drinking horse’s blood to restore strength, and Lancelot had hated the idea that Arthur was letting those stupid contrived notions interfere.

Now—Arthur still prayed, still conducted himself like a Roman as much as he could, given his state. And now Arthur watched Lancelot with clear, determined eyes, as if he’d finally settled something within him. That alteration didn’t grate on Lancelot—it frightened him. If it was the same kind of focus Arthur applied to Pelagius’ teachings and to doing his duty…

…Lancelot wished he could simply sit down and _talk_. For once, Arthur couldn’t move away from him, or claim responsibilities elsewhere, and Lancelot was still so damned shaken by Arthur’s close call that his patience had improved. They might actually manage to avoid having the argument first and the explanations second.

“Lancelot?” Gawain was frowning and waving a hand before his face. “You were starting to doze.”

“Was I?” A harsh chuckle rippled out of Lancelot’s throat. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to placate the itching in them. Dreaming, was he? Perhaps he should amend his wish to no disturbances, a comfortable bed, and a warm, long nap beside Arthur.

The other man’s frown deepened to a grimace. “Don’t pass out on me.”

“I’m trying not to. Since you’re already caretaking Galahad and Tristan and…anyone else?” Briefly amused by the annoyance in Gawain’s face, Lancelot checked over the man’s shoulder for any major changes in the men on the ramparts. Nothing—a few soldiers limping for the surgeons, a few more limping up to take their place—nothing he needed to deal with, so he could afford another moment of semi-rest. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Do I look like I’m having a good time?” Gawain snorted, rolling one shoulder as if it pained him. The puffy blue-black beneath his eyes stretched almost to his mouth, while the rest of his face looked as if his skin had been wrenched over a skull two sizes too large. His hands were trembling a little with fatigue, and he couldn’t stop blinking so he resembled a girl inexpertly flirting. In the dim light of the torches, he was more shade than man.

“True,” Lancelot agreed. A muscle in his neck suddenly decided it was a good time to twist hard; he winced and reached up, rolling his thumbs hard into the new sore spot. “But still…”

And one knew Gawain was exhausted when he didn’t bother to dress up his words in tact. “Of course I get tired. But it’s not like having a favorite barmaid, you thoughtless jackass. It’s whether you want to be fed up or whether you want them dead.”

“Galahad’s a bad influence on you.” The crick had almost worked itself out, but that last spark of ache deftly eluded Lancelot’s clumsy fingers. He resisted his first impulse to just snap that muscle—he’d probably miss and break his neck—and doggedly chased it. “And you’ve known Tristan for what, a week?”

“You can talk about me when you’ve been sainted,” interrupted Galahad, stumbling up. He shoved something at Gawain, who stared for a moment before deciding it was safe to take. As it turned out, it was dried beef. “But all right, I can’t explain Tristan. Except maybe Gawain likes hawks and bad senses of humor.”

Teeth working at the meat, Gawain mumbled his words, but the meaning of his glower was clear enough. “He offers intelligent, thoughtful conversation, minus the ill-temper. He’s a friend, and those are rare enough here. And thank you for the food.”

Galahad’s idea of a gracious ‘you’re welcome’ was a grunt, but his ducked head didn’t quite disguise a slight lightening of expression. He shuffled closer to Gawain and for a moment they were leaning in, breathing the same air, but it passed before Lancelot could blink. If anyone else had been watching, it would’ve only looked as if the two men had been whispering, possibly sharing a threadbare joke. With so many eyes watching, they couldn’t afford to do any more.

“Ambrosius!” someone shouted.

Lancelot whipped around and ran for the wall, dimly registering that the other men were following. He took the steps, little more than rudely-smoothed flattish pegs of wood, two and three at a time. “Where?”

The same man who’d shouted, one of the older centurions, dodged a spear and pointed across the river. And there was the flapping black ripples of standards against black sky, and the line of glint too low and thickly-clustered to be stars. A moment later, Gawain and Galahad arrived just in time to hear an eerie whoop whip across the dark waters.

“Gorlois. I’d recognize that voice anywhere,” Gawain gasped, abruptly sagging against the wall. Behind him, a panicked Galahad made a grab for him, but his batting-away of Galahad’s hands showed it was only relief and not an injury that had made him collapse.

High in the sky, a crescent moon provided some light, and the fires on the other side of the river provided more. They watched the perfect ranks of Ambrosius’ soldiers come into the red-yellow circle and then break into smaller but no less perfectly-ordered groups that smashed through the town, driving all before them.

“Galahad,” Lancelot snapped, but Galahad was already running for the soldiers stationed on their side of the river. Gawain went after him, as did many of the knights on the ramparts, and shortly thereafter the Woads fleeing into the river met a ruthless storm of arrows blocking their way. Lancelot didn’t see a single one that escaped.

Back at the town, more of Ambrosius’ forces were starting to emerge from the forest, the gleam of their armor duller—because of the gore on it, Lancelot realized. If nothing else, Ambrosius was methodical and had been sure to go through the forest; there was no point in taking the town without the accompanying countryside. That would just result in two armies under two separate sieges.

On Lancelot’s side of the river, a bone-chilling cry abruptly soared into the night: the Woads here had noticed the fate of their comrades. Lancelot risked a look over the side of the wall, dodged back and ran down to one corner, where he checked again—the Woads were retreating, melting back into the forest.

“Thank God,” breathed someone. A legionary, eyes raised to the moon.

Arthur…Lancelot turned to head down and tell the other man, but the moment his foot touched the ground, Paullus rode up. The man clumsily yanked at the reins, prompting an outraged whinny and some furious rearing from his stallion.

“Down! Down—shhh, it’s all right. The stupid Roman’s got a hard hand with the reins, yes, but someday he’ll forget to tighten the girth strap,” Lancelot half-hissed, half-shouted at the horse trying to stomp him into the dirt. The next time it reared, he slipped beneath to the other side and made a successful snatch at the flapping reins. “Shhh, pretty. When that day comes, he’ll try to mount and he’ll be right in the shit.”

He was speaking in Sarmatian, which horses seemed to like better than clipped, cacophonic Latin, smart creatures that they were. Whether it was the language or the suggestion, Paullus’ stallion very quickly calmed and planted all four of its feet back on the ground, while a relieved Paullus almost looked grateful. But then the man seemed to remember that one, he ranked, and two, he was Roman so he had supposedly ranked from birth, and merely gave Lancelot a curt nod of thanks. “Ambrosius’ forces have secured the far bank. Get your men ready; I want to be out of this death-trap by morning.”

So much for catching a bit of sleep, though Lancelot was as eager as anyone else to escape to the other side. There the surrounding land had been long since cleared so a broad circle of plain separated the town from the damnable woods, and there they’d be able to move and breathe and think like men, and not like cornered animals.

But there Arthur would have to face outwards again, and now Lancelot wasn’t sure whether Arthur would remember to look back.

“Lancelot?” Paullus’ temper was about as short as an eunuch was fertile.

“Yes. Sir. I’ll see to it.” Tired of playing the good subordinate, Lancelot released Paullus’ horse and walked off. Behind him, he could hear the stallion beginning to panic once more, but he pretended he hadn’t heard.

* * *

Granted, it was a relief to be able to finally stretch his and his horse’s legs with a good long ride, but Galahad would rather that he’d done that in a nice pasture than by trotting endlessly back and forth across the river, helping to oversee yet another shifting of camp. He was getting entirely too familiar with water. And anyway, he didn’t have the temperament for this sort of job, with its constant stream of questions that were all the same, with its frustrating little breakdowns that managed to stop everything in its tracks. Gawain did, but Gawain was supposedly busy. And the man still owed Galahad a return favor for just before everything had turned on its head.

Of course, if he’d brought that up, Gawain would’ve simply said he was being petty. Maybe that was true, but Galahad’s back ached and his legs were almost numb and his eyes were hurting so badly he could do little more than squint. It wouldn’t be petty if he collapsed from exhaustion and fell off his horse.

Anyway, Gawain could use the rest as well. His hair, which the girls hanging about the tavern liked to call honey-colored, was now nearly as dark as Lancelot’s due to the dirt and blood and other bits of filth in it, and the few times Galahad had caught a glimpse of him, he looked worse off than the beggars in the streets. A long soak in a hot bath—one of the few Roman customs Galahad had decided was a good thing to take up—and maybe a soft bed, big enough so that Gawain’s knees didn’t dig into Galahad…

…a different kind of splashing. Blinking fast, Galahad shook himself out of his daydream to see Owein approaching. “What?”

The other man reined in, flopping his hair out of his eyes so Galahad couldn’t help but note the lurid gray of Owein’s skin. They were all exhausted, ready to drop, and yet they had to keep going lest morale sag even lower. Frankly, it was a bit pointless; all of them combined weren’t Arthur, and Gawain should stop trying to make that so. For one, he didn’t have nearly Arthur’s ability to soften Lancelot into a reasonably companionable human being.

“Almost done,” Owein rasped. “Sick are coming, and that’s it.”

So that was why he was here—his troop had taken the most casualties, as it’d turned out. As skilled fighters as they were, they didn’t seem to have a good grasp of when there’d been enough killing. In consequence they wore themselves out and were too damned proud to stay near other knights, so they had farther to go when making it back to the surgeon.

Then again, Galahad wouldn’t be inclined to keep the line if he were positioned next to Perceval, who was escorting a wagonload of Sarmatian corpses hastily bundled into their horse-blankets. The man actually took the time to sneer at Owein as he passed. “Stupid callous son of a bitch,” Galahad muttered.

“You’ve noticed?” Owein didn’t seem to know whether to be sarcastic or surprised.

“Do they bring you all up to be this mocking?” Galahad snapped, forgetting himself in his irritation at anything and everything. “Dinidan—”

And _then_ his memory lashed him across the face, and then he ducked his head in too-late regret while Owein stiffened into grimness. No reply came, but even the dead could’ve seen that Owein was choking back rage.

Another wagon passed. This one was full of groaning legionaries that cried out at every jolt. The water was above the axles and dangerously close to the bottom of the wagonbed, which had been hastily raised. Good thing they were crossing now; if they’d left it another day they probably would’ve had to build a bridge.

“Sorry.” Galahad dropped his gaze to his reins, with which he fiddled while he pretended he wasn’t peeking at Owein’s reaction. “Really. I—he deserved a better death.”

“He deserved a better life,” Owein rasped, staring straight ahead. The corners of his eyes and lips twitched as he smoothed all the emotion off of his face, replacing it with the customary distant disdain of his men. Behind him were tall billowing towers of smoke—Ambrosius’ men were tidying up, burning the legionary and Woad corpses in the old camp. “I watched him and Tristan grow up. They were the same age as my youngest brothers would have been.” Then he glanced at Galahad and lifted his shoulders in a tiny shrug. “Though Dinidan wasn’t always careful with his jokes. Had a tongue as quick as his hair was black.”

Well, in all honesty, Galahad had heard worse. It’d been nastier when he had been too small and slender to defend himself as well as being slow to grow a beard. After he’d grown and learned to handle himself in a fight, Perceval and Agravaine and the rest had had to find other targets. “He probably saved the army.”

“That’s small comfort.” Eyebrow quirked, Owein shot Galahad a sardonic look. “You think I want to lead heroes? Heroes die early and young and painfully. I want to lead men. I want to see them home. I don’t want to name them and have empty places in the ranks the next day.”

Guilt. That was what Owein was struggling against, Galahad suddenly realized. Not anger, but guilt, which Galahad should’ve recognized sooner, given all the time he’d spent around Arthur. And he should have learned what to say by now, what words to give to the abrupt need he had to answer Owein, and to answer with something that the other man would listen to, but he hadn’t.

“Your friend,” Owein said, when the silence had gone on too long. “Gawain. What is he trying to do?”

“Be nice,” Galahad muttered, shrugging. He caught the shuttered worry in Owein’s expression and turned around to give a longer answer, a little relieved that he could actually do so. “He listens to Arthur a lot—sometimes I think it’s his goal in life to personally see every knight he meets back to Sarmatia in one piece. And he thinks Tristan’s funny for some reason.”

A flicker of a grin appeared on Owein’s face, and the set of his shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Tristan can be, on occasion. Could be. Now—” mouth twist to cut off that line of talk “—never mind. But I wouldn’t worry, if I were you. Keeping more knights out there means there’s less chance of someone killing you.”

Which was a confusing statement to make, but before Galahad could ask for an explanation, Owein had wheeled and headed for one of the sick wagons. The man came up beside to the frantically-gesturing driver, then whipped about and jabbed his hand at the town. “Where’s Lancelot?”

“Why—what happened?” Galahad started to turn his horse toward the wagon, but then a commotion on the riverbank made him reverse himself.

For a moment, he stared in disbelief and didn’t care in the least that a slack jaw made him look an idiot. Then he shoved his heels into his horse’s sides and headed for shore as fast as possible.

* * *

By Gawain’s count, at least three people had told Ambrosius that Arthur was still extremely weak and thus was crossing with the rest of the injured, but the man had apparently refused to hear any of them. He was striding up and down the bankside, loudly and lengthily explaining how he hadn’t expected this level of incompetence and rudeness from such seasoned officers.

Paullus’ face was blank as a freshly-washed sheet, but his sword-hand occasionally twitched toward the hilt at his hip. Lucius’ two top officers, Galerius of the infantry and Pelles who’d taken over the cavalry after Bercilak’s death, were having more difficulty controlling their resentment. And Lancelot? Well, to the casual—or enraged and vocal—eye, he appeared to be listening quite closely. Gawain, however, had known the man for much longer than that, and he knew Lancelot was dozing. He’d long since grown used to the eeriness of Lancelot’s ability to nap with eyes open if he wanted—unsurprisingly, it was a popular habit to cultivate among soldiers—but Gawain still found himself disturbed by Lancelot’s uncanny sense of when to wake.

“And now you tell me that the reason I found no fortifications here was because Lucius Cornelius failed to build any? Tell me, why didn’t you send to him earlier, so he had time to?” Ambrosius whirled on Lancelot, who blinked—and was fully conscious, as simple as that. “Why didn’t Artorius go before night fell? Galerius said Lucius Cornelius reached town a full five hours before dusk.”

“Sir, we didn’t reach our campsite until two hours before dusk. The road on the other side is longer and goes through rougher terrain. And Arth—torius—” Lancelot wasn’t quite as quick as he usually was, though given the past week that was understandable “—went as soon as he could. Sir.”

Gawain winced at the faint insolence in Lancelot’s words; Ambrosius was a cut above the usual inattentive Roman officer and was sure to catch it.

Fortunately, at that moment Paullus stepped in and distracted Ambrosius. “What they say is true, sir. We received the scouts’ reports the same time we noticed the absence of proper fortifications on the other side of the river. Where we were, the woods are thick. It wasn’t possible to see Lucius Cornelius’ army from the road until we’d emerged at our campsite.”

Ambrosius stopped pacing and was gracious enough to wave them all to a more secluded area of the riverbank, where curious eyes and ears couldn’t eavesdrop. Their new meeting-ground was a small side-pier half-shielded by thick brush, just at the edge of the ford where the deeper water made boats possible. The general commanded the end projecting into the river, while Paullus claimed the spot nearest the exit path, the other infantry officers clustering around him, and the knights gradually drifted around Lancelot.

“What the fuck is up his ass?” Pelles muttered, dropping into his dialect. “He can’t bear to soil his tent floor with the likes of us?”

“Better than that,” Lancelot replied out of the corner of his mouth. He dropped his head a bit to pinch at his nose, as if trying to stave off a headache. “Everyone knows some officer fucked up from the very beginning. So he wants to get the blame assigned, and publicly, lest the soldiers decide to lynch him.”

Frowning, Gawain tried to remember the fragments of Roman history Arthur dropped from time to time. “How often does that happen?”

“Enough to make me almost wish I were a legionary right now.” Then Lancelot raised his head and looked grimly at Ambrosius, who appeared to be thinking very hard and fast about something. Nearly as one, the other knights all turned to face the same way.

After a few moments, Ambrosius suddenly snapped up his head, as if he’d just been struck by the greatest idea in the world. His eyes, however, had the same light as that in a fox’s. Gawain’s gut started to sink.

“So now we’ve not only had to waste time retaking a town that should never have been lost, but our reputation has also been severely degraded by your misfortune in being penned up by a pack of renegade Britons. For the love of God, they wear nothing but blue paint!” Ambrosius rubbed at his right eye, which was bloodshot and ringed with darkish puffiness, but not nearly to the same degree as those of all the men he was watching so contemptuously. “And of the three ranking officers involved, one never even went out of camp and one is reportedly too ill to be seen because the last one _apparently_ lost his mind before being killed by the Woads.”

“There were many witnesses to Lucius Cornelius’—” Lancelot started, voice rising right from the start, detachment ripping away.

But before he could go further, Paullus quickly stepped in front of him and shot Gawain a look that said very clearly to silence. Normally Gawain would think about it before he took an order from someone besides Arthur or Lancelot, but in this case he was willing to make an exception. There was too much riding on Ambrosius’ mood, so Gawain grabbed Lancelot’s arm and jerked him back to leave Paullus the floor.

“There were many witnesses, including myself, to Lucius Cornelius’ tragic lapse,” continued Paullus, producing a honey-coated tactfulness of which, to judge from the surprise around the group, no one had thought him capable. “From all levels of rank. And the common soldiers all seem to find that a very appealing explanation.”

Lancelot was visibly seething at Paullus’ usage of ‘explanation’ to describe fact, but he held his tongue. For his part, Ambrosius seemed to acknowledge the truth in Paullus’ words, but with great reluctance. His eyes were still searching for a scapegoat. “I see. However, that matter will have to wait. Currently we have Woads to crush, and I don’t seem to have a single senior cavalry officer with which to do it.”

Both Lancelot and Pelles looked stung by that, and Pelles was beginning to open his mouth when someone splashed up the ford.

“You do, in fact.”

And they probably all looked very silly: grown men starting and whipping about like scared children. Though Arthur certainly was pale enough to play the part of the ghost. He wasn’t wearing full armor, or even his red cloak, and his clothing bulged rather oddly around his ribs—layers of bandages, Gawain realized. A few peeked from Arthur’s collar, and his arm was in a makeshift sling, but he was using two hands to handle the reins. He also wasn’t sitting very well in the saddle, and when he made a slight, stiff inclination of his upper body, Gawain wasn’t the only one holding his breath.

“I apologize for not immediately coming to meet you,” Arthur went on, voice thready and soft, though his gaze was shockingly lucid and steady.

“Ah…well…” It was the first time Ambrosius had ever been seen to be speechless. However, he quickly recovered and waved Arthur up, whereupon everyone had to move as Arthur’s horse climbed the bank.

Gawain finally remembered to check on Lancelot and turned to see either the angriest or the most fearful man in the world. As Arthur’s stallion shook the last droplets from its hooves, it slipped a bit on some loose sand and skidded off the ford, its hind-leg momentarily sinking almost up to the hock; Lancelot went white and jerked forward.

Thankfully, the horse quickly scrambled up and was on dry ground, then the pier before Lancelot did anything…conspicuous. On the other hand, all the jolting and quick movements had drained even more blood from Arthur’s face. His lips were clamped together with silent pain and he had one hand clenched so hard in his horse’s mane that he had to be pulling out hairs.

As soon as possible, Lancelot moved to help Arthur down. Gawain followed, while Pelles hastily seized the reins to Arthur’s stallion and held it still. Between them all, Arthur managed to dismount with some dignity. Then he politely but pointedly freed himself from their support and haltingly walked over to Ambrosius. “Again, I apologize for my tardiness. What’s the situation upriver?”

* * *

Ever since they’d crossed, Bors had been muttering about Ambrosius’ temper. But the bustle and confusion of changing camps had separated him from Dagonet before Dagonet could ask about that rumor.

The actual relocation had happened with all the customary efficiency of the Roman army, and temper aside, Ambrosius had seen to it that his men soon took over all the work, so that had very soon left Dagonet with little to do in a strange camp. He was tired, but the enforced constant watchfulness of the last few days had left his nerves too tense for sleep to be a choice. In the end, he let his stomach dictate his movements and went about until he found the mess area.

Paullus’ and Arthur’s men were being generously seen to by Ambrosius’ men, both because of sympathy—any soldier with any experience dreaded the siege most of all—and because of, apparently, direct orders from the general. This second reason, however, was looked on with scorn by most of the officers.

“…distracting us while he chews up Arthur,” Bedivere was grumbling into his bowl.

Dagonet quietly took a seat facing the man but away from the rest of the officers, which put him behind Owein and, after the light had shifted to reveal the shadow was a man, one of Owein’s knights. Tristan, if Dagonet remembered rightly.

“You said Arthur sneaked out of the wagon?” Perceval asked Owein, somehow making it sound like an insult.

From his position half-sleeping on Galahad’s shoulder, Gawain roused and glared at Perceval. The other man subsided, but still appeared to be waiting for an answer.

Owein’s jaw muscle ticked, but he remained relatively calm. “He did. It must have been shortly before crossing. I’m not certain how he got to his horse.”

“One of the Britons he had evacuated from the town,” Urien said, slurping at his food. He snorted, blackly amused. “The idiot was trying to get into Arthur’s tent with some nasty concoction of his grandmother’s for Arthur. Told me all about it. Jols, I think his name is?”

“Arthur has the strangest luck,” Gorlois remarked in a musing, half-admiring tone. Then he stood up like an old man suffering from bad joints, wincing, and dusted himself off. “Comes out with more friends from something like this. I’m off to sleep; wake me when they’ve decided where to fight. Or if it’s finally time to bury a little commonsense into Ambrosius.”

Most of the knights didn’t even bother to react to his departure, for they were simply too tired to do more than chew their first full meal in a week. But Gawain fluttered a few fingers, Galahad managed to laugh, and Owein and Tristan watched Gorlois go with expressions that might have been pensive under all that ice.

Tristan suddenly flicked his eyes over and caught Dagonet observing. There wasn’t any point in pretending otherwise, so Dagonet looked a moment longer, letting Tristan know that he was assuming right, before biting into his bread.

“I wonder if the new ones come close to filling the holes,” Tristan said, so softly that Dagonet almost thought he’d imagined it.

“They aren’t. But it pulls you forward.” For a moment, Dagonet let himself think of the dead bodies rotting in the woods upriver. None of them had had a fraction of Bors’ open-hearted generosity, but they had not been bad men, and there were things about them to miss.

His statement earned himself a sharper look, as if Tristan was trying to divine the presence or absence of something in Dagonet. If it was how did Dagonet know—he didn’t. But he knew the sound of grief well enough.

“Where’s Lancelot?” Perceval asked, a bit warily. For good measure, he scanned around the area as he spoke. Bors had said the two men weren’t friendly, and that was readily apparent in Perceval’s face.

Galahad seemed to doubt Perceval’s intent, for he paused and gave the man a narrow-eyed scorching glance-over before answering. “He went with Arthur and Paullus and Ambrosius. He’s entitled.”

“True.” That single word of Perceval’s implied many, many things, and none of them were particularly pleasant.

Bedivere suddenly snarled and shoved Perceval nearly off his feet, and when the other man regained his balance, Bedivere pushed again so Perceval had to scramble into a standing position. Then he twisted around, one hand dangerously near his sword, while all around the other officers were hurriedly jumping to their feet. “I’m sick of it. I’m sick of listening to you and your sour tongue. I have to put up with everything else—I don’t have to put up with—”

“Down.” Jumping between them, Gawain stretched out his arms so both men had to step back. “ _Stop_. Go get some sleep. None of us are on-duty till tomorrow. So sleep. You’ve earned it. All of you.”

“It’d be a stupid man who didn’t take that offer,” Galahad added, casually stepping up next to Gawain.

While Bedivere readily backed down—he didn’t seem one for prolonged bouts of anger—Perceval held his ground. He gave Gawain a long, hard stare, then turned to Galahad almost as an afterthought. More than likely it was deliberate, considering what Dagonet had seen of the man’s character so far. “When the truth comes from the mouth of _boys_ , then we are in trouble.”

He spun on his heel and stalked off, curious faces hastily scrambling out of the way as he went.

Gawain stopped Galahad charging after Perceval by tapping the furious man on the arm and looking desperately tired. Very grudgingly, Galahad removed his eye-daggers from Percival’s back. “Well, that was productive.”

“I think it was,” Tristan said in a bland tone, getting up himself. He started to leave, but had to pause when a suddenly-worried Gawain moved into his path. Tristan’s eyebrow lifted—and his hands were in fists, Dagonet suddenly noticed. A second look at the man revealed more than a few hairline fractures in his apparent composure. “I’m not such a fool,” he told Gawain in a low voice.

“Good. Because he’d make a bad candidate for an honor guard.” Apparently deeming it all right, Gawain stepped aside. Behind him, Owein seemed to be hiding a sarcastic smile.

Tristan made a dismissive sound as he walked off—in the opposite direction. “But his horse would be worthy.”

Halfway to sitting down, Gawain straightened up and looked worried again. But Owein was already walking after Tristan, and Galahad had a firm grip on Gawain’s arm. “Let it go. Come on. Bed.” When Gawain still resisted, Galahad yanked harder and pointedly glared at Gawain. “ _Bed_.”

Gawain went. That left Dagonet and Urien and a very quiet Pelles, but soon it was only Urien and Pelles. Dagonet’s nerves untensed all at once, dropping him into almost irresistible drowsiness, and he decided to follow the letter of the other men’s example, if not quite the spirit.

Bors, of course, had found their tent first and was busily snoring away. Dagonet winced, smiled, and laid down in the cot next to Bors’.

* * *

The private interview was very short and brisk. Ambrosius unrolled his map and marked out the current distributions of their forces and of the Woads, as far as anyone knew. “I’ve swept them off the river settlements,” he said with a scornful look at Arthur and Paullus. “But they’ll just move back in as soon as we leave. We need to raze them to the ground.”

“Pitched battle, you mean.” Paullus sounded as if he was having a problem swallowing his emotions, but his words showed his practicality was functioning well. “The Woads have learned better than that by now.”

“Maybe not. They haven’t done sieges or concerted attacks in a long time, yet they’ve just done so. There’s been a leadership change.” A sudden wave of nausea and black rolled through Arthur and he had to stop, lean against the table and take a deep breath. Feet shuffled behind him, but halted just short—Lancelot didn’t trust Ambrosius and only tolerated Paullus, and he wouldn’t act naturally in front of them. He also understood why Arthur had to look capable of independent action. Arthur hoped. “I believe so. These recent attacks are much more organized and aggressive. And last night aside, they’ll still be overconfident from their earlier victories.”

A trace of nerves flickered through Ambrosius’ eyes, though he quickly covered it up with sarcasm. “I rather think last night would have reinforced that feeling, given that it was a rescue and not a real battle.”

Somewhere a strange grinding sound started. A moment later, Arthur realized it was Paullus gritting his teeth; he gave his colleague a sharp warning look and Paullus stopped, acknowledging that they had to walk gingerly here.

Gingerly. God, it hurt just to breathe…Arthur’s vision faded out a little and he willed it to come back. He needed to think. Aggressive Woads-- _Merlin_.

Merlin and treachery and stark despairing madness and so much worry in Lancelot’s face over a man as imperfect as Arthur. No. The campaign.

“If we can give them a tempting target,” Arthur went on. “A slow, heavy baggage train—”

“But there’d be no reason for us to send out an unguarded or even a lightly-guarded one,” Paullus objected. Ambrosius, meanwhile, had withdrawn a little and was watching the two of them work it out among themselves.

It irked him that he couldn’t do it himself. And he was already angry, and doubting them…something had to be done to show Ambrosius that they weren’t going to take advantage of his weakness in military strategy. That they weren’t aiming at his position, but instead meant only to serve Rome.

The idea snapped into Arthur’s mind fully-fledged. “Then wagons of sick and wounded back to the garrison. Both sides of the road are clear, it’s supposed to be our territory—we can hide soldiers in the wagons and use only a light escort. It’ll draw them out of the woods and then we can fall on their rear.”

“Not bad…” Forehead wrinkling with thought, Paullus considered the plan, gradually relaxing into what he did and liked best—tactical warfare. “But I still think they’ll be wary.”

“They won’t if I’m in that train. They saw me fall—they know I’m injured, and I rank highly enough that they’d risk it.” And even when Lucius had been alive, Arthur had had no problem in saying he was the better commander as far as conducting battle went. If the Woads had wanted him dead badly enough that they’d actually go through the pretenses of making a deal with Lucius, then they’d be more than willing to come for him again.

Paullus was staring at Arthur as if they were meeting for the first time and Arthur had some kind of facial disfiguration. “You? But—you know we’ll have to hold the rest of the army far back if the Woads aren’t going to notice us till the last moment.”

“I think it’s a fine plan,” Ambrosius interrupted, glancing back and forth between them. When his eyes landed on Arthur, a momentary flash of remorse softened his expression. “It’s a very generous and selfless offer. Thank you, Artorius. Pity about Lucius Cornelius, though as I understand it, madness does run in his father’s side. I imagine you’ll both be quite busy, so I’ll take handling that matter off your hands and leave you to deal with the upcoming battle. Artorius, the knights are yours. Paullus, you’ve temporary field command.”

Arthur exhaled and sagged against the desk. Beside him, Paullus was doing the same—that was what they’d been waiting for. Absolution. Ambrosius would see to it for them.

And Ambrosius was the old kind of Roman, keeping his promises once they were given whether that was for an underhanded deal or an instance of benevolence. As long as the battle was won, Arthur and Paullus were safe from political repercussions.

After a few more administrative details, Ambrosius dismissed them. Surprisingly enough, Paullus stayed to help get Arthur back to his tents, and then for a word while an…oddly quiet Lancelot went inside to chase out whoever was rattling things inside.

“I’ve often wondered what it would be like to be capable of commanding such loyalty,” Paullus said, staring past Arthur’s shoulder. Then he snorted at himself and looked at Arthur. “I’m content with what I have, but sometimes…well, I’m glad you were stubborn enough to live. For one, I don’t fancy trying to control that kn--those knights of yours.”

He flicked his eyes once again at something behind Arthur, then nodded. “I’ll bring the plans by tomorrow morning. You look like you could use sleep and food.”

“Thank you. And…Asia Minor.” Arthur found himself leaning more and more heavily against the tentpole, though that only increased the pain of his back and shoulder. He fought down a flinch. “You may have to wait till next year. But I’ll keep my word.”

“As long as you remember, I can do that. And you never forget anything, do you?” Paullus flapped a hand at Arthur and turned down the path, shoulders sloping heavily with his own exhaustion.

Lancelot reappeared, followed by the man Arthur had persuaded—sweet-talked, Arthur recalled rather ashamedly—into sneaking his horse to him earlier in the morning, once it was made clear the surgeons wouldn’t allow him up.

Jols. That was the name. “Jols? I thought you were seeing to your mother.”

“Did that. Then I was thinking you might need some more help, given your injuries and all.” The man smiled, pleased that Arthur had remembered their conversation. Over Jols’ shoulder, Lancelot glared and gestured.

“Thank you, but I’m fine. Though…could you check on my horse?” Arthur asked as pleasantly as he could, given that everything from the back of his neck to his waist was on fire.

Jols could. And Jols went off, happy as could be, while a murderous-looking Lancelot helped Arthur inside. He did wait until after he’d set Arthur on the cot and stripped Arthur to the waist so he could change the dressings.

Then he flicked a damp rag at one of the lacerations. It was like being speared through—the pain burst up from Arthur’s gut and out his mouth as a gasp before he could even blink. He flinched forward a little too far, jerked himself back on the bed and somehow ended up with his face pressed into Lancelot’s shoulder and his hands knotted in the sheets, around Lancelot’s thigh.

Fingers grabbed at Arthur’s hair and roughly stroked it. “You know,” Lancelot said, voice shaking with fragments of too many emotions to identify, “Most men are more cautious after they almost die.”

“Lancelot—”

“You fucking—I can’t believe—no, I can, and that’s the sorry part. You idiot!” Lancelot let go of Arthur’s head and pushed backward on the cot, temper flaring high in cheeks and eyes. “You can’t even sit up by yourse—”

Biting his lip, Arthur straightened and shifted so he didn’t have to twist himself to face Lancelot. He watched Lancelot close his eyes as if the light pained him to see and drop his head into his hands, every ragged breath heightening the burning hurt in Arthur’s back.

“Don’t do this,” Lancelot groaned. “Not again. Don’t—make me—Arthur, the last thing I want to see is you dying.”

“And I have no intention of doing so. There’s no point in bargaining with Ambrosius if I don’t expect to live to see the benefits of it.” Arthur started to lean forward and caught himself on an abrupt rise in pain. He stopped, reset the clamp of his teeth together, and then continued, grabbing for Lancelot’s shoulders for balance. “But this has to be done.”

When Lancelot nodded, he refused to look at Arthur. His lashes fluttered, picking up a few crystal droplets, but otherwise he didn’t show any emotion.

“You’ll command the others—” Arthur began.

“No. If you’re going to be this incredibly stupid, I want to be where I can see you. Let Urien or Owein do it.” Now Lancelot met Arthur’s eyes, and with such a stubborn expression that Arthur almost said something quick and sharp and over-hasty. But then Lancelot smiled, all sad irony, and ran a finger over Arthur’s aching shoulder. “In a few years you _won’t_ be able to order me around, and then what will you do?”

That light touch was too much to bear; Arthur released Lancelot’s shoulder and pulled his arm to him, wincing. Something dark and equally raw flecked Lancelot’s eyes, then disappeared as he leaned forward. Very gently, he helped Arthur put the arm back in its sling.

“You’ll have learned something, I’d hope. At least from my mistakes. And you’ll be careful.” Arthur still had one hand on Lancelot, and that one he curled about Lancelot’s neck, stroking where those frayed curls trickled away into bare smooth skin. “Back in Sarmatia. You will get there. I swear.”

Lancelot rolled his eyes and produced a sarcastic smile, dismissing that for now. “Turn around. I’ll get your back cleaned and then I’m going to collapse in your chair. By the way, you need never fear that I’ll steal your job from you. I hate it.”

Sometimes Arthur did as well. As slowly as he could, he drew his hand from Lancelot and moved, surrendering to the requirements of propriety.

* * *

For the fourth time in ten breaths, Galahad opened his eyes. He looked about the dark tent, noting the shadowy forms of the other knights bunked with them. Then he reached down and shoved the knee out of his stomach.

“What?” Gawain mumbled, flopping around a bit more.

“If you’re having that much trouble sleeping, we could move to the floor. Be less cramped than this broken-down cot.” Galahad sat up—a little too fast. Hissing, he rolled his hips till his weight wasn’t bearing down directly on the deep soreness between his legs.

Not that that wasn’t unwelcome, but…it also wasn’t typically Gawain. Usually Galahad was the one who went at it hungry and fast and too overwhelming to do more than gasp.

“Go to sleep.” An arm came up and wandered around till it found Galahad, whereupon it started halfheartedly batting and pulling.

“I was. Several times. You’re the one who isn’t sleeping,” Galahad retorted. The next time it came near his face, Galahad grabbed Gawain’s wrist and wrestled it back down to the bed. Then he bent over the other man and stared till Gawain ceased faking and opened an eye. “What?”

That eye looked as if it could strangle Galahad all by its lonesome. “Not—actually, there was one thing.” Gawain rolled over and hooked his arm around the back of Galahad’s knees, knocking Galahad down. Before Galahad could recover, he’d been pulled into a prone position and then slumped over by Gawain. “How do you do that?” the other man muttered, almost annoyed.

“Do…how do I sleep?” Granted, Galahad had made reasonable headway into making up for lost rest, but he was still far enough behind that he had to sit and think about that question. Either Gawain was so tired that his mind had stopped functioning, or he meant something else.

Some other meaning, Galahad’s gut insisted. His own mind wanted to tell Gawain to shut up and stop gouging knees and elbows into him, but Galahad wasn’t about to do that. He wasn’t that stupid. Or unappreciative, or unobservant of the slackness in the curve of Gawain’s back and the tension in Gawain’s shoulders, which were pinning down Galahad’s hands. He pushed at them a little, testing their dead weight—Gawain didn’t move.

At first. Then, very slowly, the other man slid sideways a few inches. “Never mind.”

“Listen to him,” grunted Bedivere from across the tent. “We gave you two your hour. Now shut up and sleep.”

“As if you…” As much as Galahad wanted to say something back, he couldn’t think of anything nasty enough. In the end, he closed his mouth and scuffled under the blankets, worming around various bits of Gawain as he did.

His knee slipped while he was working it past Gawain’s hip and he nearly knocked himself off the cot. Galahad bit down on his swearing and scrabbled back on, trying not to move the furs too much.

He didn’t quite succeed. Sighing, Gawain propped himself up enough to grab Galahad and pull him into the center of the narrow cot. Then he wrapped his arm around Galahad’s waist and poked Galahad’s head down with his chin.

“Better?” Galahad whispered.

Gawain shrugged, but it felt as if he’d relaxed a bit. “You’re being nice. Oddly so.”

“Well, I’m tired. And for once, you’re being the idiot that doesn’t know how to look after himself.” Galahad tugged up the sheets and pushed his face closer to Gawain’s chest, eyes already fluttering shut. But he made himself stay awake until Gawain had fallen asleep first.

* * *

Owein caught up with Tristan near one of the gates, where Tristan was studying the patterns of the guards’ movements.

“There’d be little point,” Owein said. He stopped beside Tristan but didn’t look over, choosing instead to stare at the winking stars. After a bit, he dug out some dried bits of meat and began feeding them to the cranky hawk on Tristan’s arm.

She wanted to sleep, but for some reason, she would go into fits of wing-feather rattling and soft cries whenever Tristan started to leave the tent. So he’d taken her with him, but apparently she was waiting till he slept as well. Normally he would have done so to spare her any exhaustion, but at the current time he simply wasn’t capable of sleeping. His body was bone-tired, his mind told him he needed it if he wanted to be able the next day, but the cot was too large. There was too much space in the tent, and his horse had too much room to move because there wasn’t another horse hobbled and tethered to one side of it.

“You’re not going out.” That was an implicit order, to judge from Owein’s tone. “You can kill more Woads if you stay and fight with the rest.”

In truth, the reason killing Woads had taken on a new dimension of appeal for Tristan had nothing to do with whether they died on the battlefield or in a two-man duel with him. And what hurt was not, in fact, the knowledge of death—they’d been living under its shadow for too long—but the absences. No things because they had little to begin with and Dinidan had taken everything on which he’d stamped his personality; the few belongings he’d left were pieces of standard gear that were cold and storyless even to eyes, a spare twist of leather thong he’d tied into Tristan’s hair, and the hawk, who had been more Tristan’s anyway. No body he could wash and wrap and bury. Not even a sword to mark the grave mound.

So he would give those absences back to the Woads. The Romans disliked the putrefaction and danger of disease that accompanied letting the bodies of the fallen lie where they’d fallen—they burned them all as soon as possible after the fighting was over, enemy and friend alike. Except for the Sarmatian bodies, since Arthur had argued for special dispensation there. But the Woads that died in battle went onto the pyres, and those they left behind had only the absence to mourn. That would continue. Tristan would see to it. He would let the Woads bleed into their precious land and see that they dwindled to nothing.

Shuffling noises. Though any casual observer would have said Owein’s expression hadn’t changed, Tristan could tell otherwise.

“I have a spare sword,” Owein finally said, that trace of discomfort in his voice speaking volumes.

“Save it. Yours might break.” It was a kind offer, but it ultimately meant nothing. Another man’s sword marking an empty grave—that told a different story than the one Tristan wanted remembered.

Gawain had learned a good deal about him in the few days they’d known each other. For a moment, Tristan was impressed.

His hawk ruffled and bobbed her head, snapping only half-playfully at his nose. He tried to soothe her by stroking her feathers, but she was still unsatisfied. “Sleep, then,” Tristan murmured. “No need to wait for me.”

Half-overhearing, Owein studied Tristan for the span of several slow breaths. Then he returned to watching the stars, a minor hobby of his. “I would not see you going off on your own. Not until necessity forces that. We’re fewer and fewer, and we can’t afford the risk.”

“Even if Geraint had brought something back—if he’d brought a body—” Tristan stopped and recollected himself “—then there would have been a simple burial. It still wouldn’t have been enough.”

“And what would have been? A king’s burial?” Owein rasped. He sighed and dropped his head, rubbing at his eyes. It was the first time in years that Tristan had seen the man publicly betray signs of his internal condition. “Tristan. I don’t have favorites, but you two were mine. Arthur bought you a few more years, so did Gawain—don’t toss that away. Try it first. Or, if I’d ever done something good for you, then wait until I’m dead and can’t see to—”

“—slip out and go looking for what I can of him? Kill Woad sorcerers and horses to lay in his grave? Steal gold to decorate his rotting corpse?” Tristan mockingly finished. It wasn’t deserved—Owein had done many things for him and for Dinidan—but suddenly everything was snapping loose and Tristan had to turn it on someone. Unfortunately for Owein, he was nearest.

And fortunately for Tristan, Owein had enough patience and insight to not reply and thus offer Tristan further opportunity. So Tristan had to choke the flash of rage back down, but it wouldn’t fit into the dark recesses from which it’d come and spilled out again. Only this time, it was in a way that, though it was too dark for anyone to see, made Tristan duck his head so his face couldn’t been seen.

Sometime during it, Owein took the hawk from Tristan’s arm and held her till Tristan was empty, hollowed and calm because he had nothing with which to replace that.

Then Owein spoke again. “It does little. I had a brother who was also drafted by the Romans and sent here—he died during an ambush by a river and his body, his horse, all was swept away. Into the ocean, perhaps. And I avenged him, and mourned him, but those are not the same. And the first does little.”

“I want to kill them,” said Tristan’s mouth and pulse, while Tristan’s mind struggled to remember that it couldn’t sleep, that that meant dark and separation and even forgetting and that he couldn’t yet do that.

“So kill them.” Owein glanced over, eyebrow raised. “Kill them. Kill as many as you want. But do it to honor, and not to avenge. That’s why we bury our kings and queens with gold, with horses, sometimes with the men who had been their best servants in life. We think them worthy of that honor.”

The words Tristan understood, and the meaning he comprehended, but he didn’t quite feel—he didn’t want to feel yet.

The other man nodded, as if he’d heard something Tristan hadn’t yet told him. He handed Tristan’s hawk back and then took Tristan by the arm, pulling him away from the gate. In silence they walked to Tristan’s tent, where Owein stopped, back to the entrance so half-roused, curious eyes couldn’t see out. He put his hands on Tristan’s shoulders and squeezed. Tugged forward a fraction, as if he meant to embrace Tristan, but changed his mind at the last moment. “There’s no shame in being the one that lives,” Owein said, low and intense. “None. Not as long as you live well and honor your dead. They will wait for you, and they’ll want to hear about a good life when you do come to them.”

Then he released Tristan and spun away, halfway down the path without making a sound before Tristan could blink. And the stars were still the same, somehow, and the hawk was finally starting to doze, and there were men around Tristan. Groaning, grumbling—a distant snore that was most likely Bors.

Tristan went inside and settled himself for sleeping. And he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funeral customs mentioned are a combination of Scythian and Sarmatian information, since academically it’s still debated whether they were distinct peoples. Also included is information from Herodotus, as excavations have confirmed that he got right some of his details about the Scythians.


	6. Assault

“…and it’s barely morning and he’s already being a pain in the ass,” Galahad moaned, head in hands and elbows propped up on saddle. He pressed at his temples to stop the headache, pressed at his eyes to stop the drowsy itch, pressed at his ears so he wouldn’t have to hear Lancelot’s yelling. Too bad his hands didn’t stretch quite far enough to cover all the spots that needed it. “Why isn’t he still tired like the rest of us?”

Two days later, they were all back on duty and hurriedly preparing the ambush for the Woads. At least, some of them were. Galahad happened to be overseeing the loading of the wagons with the knights who were going to play sick. Down the way was the centurion responsible for the play-acting legionaries, and just past him was Owein, busy fabricating ways to make horses look injured so there’d be enough mounts for the knights going with Arthur.

As for their commander, he was closeted with the officers that were staying with Ambrosius: Gorlois, Urien, Perceval, Pelles. Bedivere too, though some of his men had been moved to fill out Owein’s depleted ranks, since Owein’s troop had been given the duty of escort. Now _that_ had been an interesting discussion to watch—Perceval had objected on vague and stupid grounds, and Arthur had simply asked if Perceval knew of better knights for the job. Of course the man hadn’t been able to, since cavalry and plains were the more natural fit, and only Owein’s men had made a specialty of skirmishing in or near the woods.

There’d been more argument after that, since none of them had wanted to stay behind and be under Paullus’ command, however nominal; now that Arthur was up, no one wanted to let him out of sight. That was thanks partly to Perceval’s over-large mouth and nasty tongue, since many of the knights suspected that the only reason Ambrosius hadn’t fed them all to the Woads was because of Arthur.

“Which isn’t all wrong, but you say it’s more complicated than that. And it has to be if Lancelot hasn’t killed Ambrosius yet.” To be honest, Galahad could understand. If he hadn’t been going with the wagon train, he probably would’ve been upset as well. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t see and hear, and what he saw and heard was that Ambrosius, who wasn’t a stupid man by any measure, was desperate to win a battle. No one did that by slaughtering their cavalry.

“Did I say that?” The man to whom Galahad had been talking stopped secreting arrow quivers beneath blankets and poked his head out the back of the wagon.

Galahad started and nearly fell off his horse. “You! Where—how—what happened to Gawain?”

Tristan shrugged and went back to work. “He went out the front while you were complaining.”

“Bastard. He’d better apologize when he gets back.” Red-faced, Galahad moved his horse back a few steps and concentrated on taking in the whole line. There seemed to be a slight slow-down in reinforcing the wagons from the inside against arrows, but otherwise everything was proceeding according to schedule. And some poor knight had attracted a scolding from Lancelot.

Sometimes that could be amusing to watch—especially when it was Perceval or Agravaine getting the reprimand—but usually it was nothing more than the same over and over again. So Galahad turned back to the wagon in front of him, absently looking over the alterations. “You’re going to be one of the injured?”

Pausing, Tristan glanced down at his hands. A flash of irony and something heavy and leaden twitched a smile onto his face as he looked up at Galahad. “So it seems.”

After a moment, Galahad got it and winced. He suddenly wished hard that Gawain would hurry up and come back, because he didn’t know how to handle this sort of thing. Knights had died, some of them closer friends than others, but none of them had been…well, on a level with Gawain. Though Galahad had mourned them, he hadn’t felt the kind of blackness that had resided in Tristan’s eyes for that one second.

“Gawain told you to watch me?” Tristan asked, only mild curiosity in his face. His fingers were deftly sorting arrows without him having to look.

“No, actually. He can do his own watching—he’s the one that likes you.” Galahad scanned the line again, tracking the various trends of activity. As it turned out, where Gawain had gone was to talk to Lancelot, probably about how his nastiness wasn’t really a great way to motivate men. Owein was done with the horses and was riding down the wagons, occasionally stopping to speak with his knights. “You aren’t going to do anything stupid, are you? Because if you drag him into something—”

It was an odd, raspy, low sound. Something like when Galahad chipped the rust off his armor…Tristan was laughing under his breath. It looked like it hurt to do.

“Then you should watch him,” Tristan finally said, composing himself. He didn’t manage to control all of his emotions, for some were still making the muscles in his jaw work, but Galahad suspected those no longer had anything to do with humor.

“I do.” More uncomfortable than before, Galahad switched to staring at the gate.

Very soon they were going to be riding out that and onto the road, looking as helpless and slow and tempting as possible. Gawain and Lancelot would be on either side of Arthur’s carriage—the only one in the train—while Galahad had been assigned to the end of the line. There, he’d either have the brunt of the attack fall on him, or have to watch the Woads swarming the middle section from a distance, and either way, they would all have to wait for the arrival of the rest of the army to settle matters. And if Paullus was a bit slow…

Galahad wished again that Gawain would come back.

“Are you worried?” And suddenly Tristan was on the ground and standing by Galahad’s saddle without making any sound.

Even Galahad’s horse didn’t notice till Galahad did, and together they leapt back a few steps. “Don’t do that! You know, you make it very hard for people to like you.”

Tristan walked up, hand out with palm up. Though wary at first, Galahad’s horse apparently saw something Galahad didn’t and quickly moved back, nuzzling Tristan’s hand. The man slowly ran his fingers over its nose, whispering something to it.

“You still think Perceval’s horse is nicer, right?” Galahad asked. Possibly a little more quickly than he should have, given that that was going to remind Tristan of…this very much wasn’t Galahad’s area of expertise—and frankly, he hoped it never would be. “And I mean what I say about Gawain. He would mourn you, you know. Him and your troop leader.”

The other man was turned and had his head slightly bent so his hair was obscuring his expression. His fingers splayed out and pressed down on the muzzle of Galahad’s stallion, but only lightly. They held still for about a breath, then rubbed down as they drifted off so the horse whinnied in complaint at the loss of the petting.

Then Tristan looked up, but his eyes and face were perfectly blank. “I can see why he watches you. And your horse is nice, but a bit small.”

He went off just as Gawain came up, which prevented Galahad from asking what that had been all about. Or from responding to Tristan’s insult, which the man had tossed off with a strange, strained casualness. It hadn’t sounded at all like Tristan even meant it, but more as if it was merely something he thought he needed to say.

“What were you two talking about?” Gawain queried, tugging at Galahad’s stirrup leather. He looked doubtfully between the two of them till Tristan suddenly slipped behind another wagon, and then he stared up at Galahad.

“Oh, he was just molesting my horse. And…I don’t know. It was—” Galahad stiffened “—he sounded a bit like Dinidan for a moment. Or…well, like someone that wasn’t himself. But it was deliberate. I’m certain of that.”

That was more than a little creepy, but for some reason Gawain seemed to find it worthy looking concerned about. He started to move towards Tristan, then caught himself. “Well, it’ll have to wait,” he muttered, pulling on Galahad’s leg. “Come on. Everything’s just about done.”

“Time to take our places—or not.” As soon as Galahad had dismounted, Gawain nodded for another knight to watch Galahad’s horse and pulled on Galahad’s arm, leading them away from the wagons. “Gawain?”

“Not for a little bit.” The muscle in Gawain’s cheek ticked, but he didn’t look back. His fingers squeezed Galahad’s arm, trying to make some kind of point.

And then Galahad understood, and picked up his speed as they headed for the nearest quiet, secluded spot.

* * *

Once Arthur had risen from the sickbed, he could hardly go back to it. A simple tour about camp showed too many relieved faces that were too, too fragile to risk crushing morale again. And the surprising thing was how many of those faces were infantry as well as cavalry.

“Well, no one likes losing a good officer. And they know.” Gorlois jerked his chin at the bustle of passing soldiers. “Slow and stupid as turtles, legionaries are, but they’ve got enough sense to know who’ll win them battles.”

“Flighty, finicky bastards, though. You can lose them the very next day,” Bedivere snorted, passing by on his way to his knights. He almost made to clasp Arthur’s shoulder, but a glower from Lancelot hastily turned that into a light touch. “It’s good to see you up again, Arthur.”

Unfortunately, Bedivere had neglected to remember which was Arthur’s injured shoulder, though the bandages were hidden under Arthur’s clothes so it was difficult to tell. Arthur swallowed down his initial urge to wince and made himself grab Bedivere’s elbow. “Thank you. And the next day is never known, but I’ve no intention to lose today.”

His words had the immediate effects of sending Bedivere off with a lighter step, and eliciting a disgruntled sound from Lancelot.

“Spoken just like your father,” was Gorlois’ approving comment. Never a garrulous man, he took his leave with a nod and a dubious look at Lancelot, who bridled.

It was probably a good thing Perceval had left as soon as possible, Arthur thought. Though he regretted letting the man go while Perceval was still angry, he also wasn’t about to put up with the kind of rancor that had apparently sprung up while he’d been down. Yet another reason why he needed to stay up despite his injuries—too many divisions and old sores seemed to have appeared, and none of them could afford to let those fester.

“He thinks I’m a bad influence on you.” Lancelot covertly slipped an arm under Arthur’s, providing the support needed to get Arthur to their horses, while nodding in the direction that Gorlois had gone.

“He was a close friend of my father’s, and never had any children of his own. And given what you’re both like, it’s understandable.” The armor, an unavoidable necessity, was a heavy dragging load on Arthur’s bad shoulder and a tight compress on his back, lacing every movement with pain. So far he had somehow evaded any ripped stitches, but he doubted he’d be so lucky by the end of the day.

As he helped Arthur mount, Lancelot made an unamused face. “That isn’t my fault. I’m a perfectly pleasant person when I don’t have to worry about something.”

Arthur caught the reins thrown at him, a little harder than strictly necessary, and sighed. “What we’re about to do—”

“I know, I know. I don’t want to argue any more about this. I just want it over and done with.” With quick grace, Lancelot flung himself into the saddle and clucked at his horse, starting them down the path to the wagons. He looked tired and worn-down, and he kept fidgeting with his chainmail, adjusting and readjusting it.

While Arthur would’ve preferred to see him in the heavier plate armor, their aim was to try to lure the Woads out of the woods and into close combat, and not to conduct a mounted charge. The plate armor was too restrictive and not suitable for the skirmishing they’d be doing before the rest of the army arrived, and moreover, it would be a dead give-away that they’d be expecting a Woad attack. So they would have to risk the arrows of the Britons.

Arthur wasn’t in full armor either, and Lancelot had had many pointed words to say about that earlier. Though if the pain was this bad with only a simple cuirass and chainmail, then Arthur was certain he’d be bedridden in anything heavier.

Of course, Lancelot would have claimed that for another reason why someone else should be the bait. And he’d wanted to say that—Arthur had seen that in the man’s eyes as Lancelot had helped him dress—but he’d refrained for some reason. Which worried Arthur.

“Stop that.”

Startled, Arthur came back to himself and stared at Lancelot, who made a dismissive wiggle with his fingers. He leaned over and pulled at Arthur’s shoulderguard, resettling it so it didn’t strain the half-healed wound there quite so badly. “Stop thinking. It’s all decided, all we have to do is get through it, and that’s going to be _immensely_ fun—can’t you put off whatever it is until afterward?”

“Can I?” Arthur replied, watching the way Lancelot’s eyelashes swept down against his skin. He wanted to reach out and run his finger along the other man’s jaw, smooth away all the tension there. He wanted to turn around and get off his horse and pass out till his body stopped reminding him so often that death was only a second away, and he wanted to take Lancelot with him.

Instead of doing any of those things, he nudged at his horse to move a little faster. There was a good point in the other man’s words; many of the concerns crowding so closely about him couldn’t be dealt with until after the battle. But it was precisely that—they would be waiting for his attention—that forced Arthur to think on them.

A small bark of laughter, not entirely unpleasant to hear, slipped out of Lancelot. “No. Then you’d be…I don’t know, Galahad. But damn it, Arthur. I wish I _were_ a bad influence on you, instead of it being—”

He cut himself off before he could reveal too much to possible eavesdroppers, then pointed with an abrupt gesture. “You might want to have a chat with Owein before you get into your litter. I’m to Gawain—I’ll be back when we start moving.”

Lancelot waited only for Arthur to nod in return before he whirled off, cantering down to the head of the wagons. Meanwhile, Owein had noticed Arthur’s arrival and came up, accompanied by…a knight that seemed very familiar. Arthur frowned, trying to remember what Lancelot and Gawain had said about the meetings and events Arthur had missed; the trouble was that they seemed to know two different stories, and those stories imperfectly matched up at several points.

“Everything’s ready,” Owein said, riffling sawdust out of his hair. While Tristan held onto Arthur’s horse, Owein helped Arthur get off. “This is Tristan. He’ll be in the carriage with you.”

“Thank you,” Arthur replied, trying not to flinch too much. Short as the ride across camp had been, his muscles had stiffened during it and now the cramps were pulling hard on the stitches. He looked at Tristan again—then remembered. “I see the pike did miss you.”

Tristan blinked, surprised in a way that said he wasn’t often so. “Yes. I…thank you for that.”

“No need. Anyway, I should be thanking the both of you—according to Gawain, you did exceptionally during the siege.” Arthur looked away to unbuckle Excalibur from his belt, as there was no way he’d be able to climb into the carriage with it weighing down his side. Doing that released a good deal of strain on one side and the pain momentarily blinded Arthur, then receded so fast that that hurt as well. “And I’m sorry about…Dinidan. Do I have his name right?”

Both Owein and Tristan had frozen, staring at Arthur as if they couldn’t decide whether he was mad, or they were. But then something cracked in the background—a wagon had made its need for more grease on its axles loudly known—and they snapped out of it.

“He was one of my best.” Owein seemed about to add something else, then stopped himself and changed the conversation to a few last details about the ambush. While he and Arthur discussed those, Tristan quietly disappeared.

After Owein had gotten all the answers he needed, he considerately left to see to a few last changes, so Arthur didn’t have too much of an audience to his struggle into the carriage. Inside was even darker and more airless than the usual, due to the extra layers of wood hammered to the walls and roof, and the few slits left for free passage of air were near the bottom to avoid letting arrows have entry, which meant that little light managed to get in.

Tristan was at the back, rummaging with what appeared to be a pile of blankets. When Arthur heaved himself in, panting a little with the effort, the other man paused to give him a hand.

“Thank you.” Arthur took a seat in one corner and unsnapped Excalibur from its belt, since it was unlikely he’d need to sheath it during the next few hours. He could leave the belt and scabbard in the carriage when the fighting started.

“They say you’re part-Briton.” The words were very flat, telling nothing about Tristan’s intention. He was closing the carriage doors, which cut off nearly all light so his expression, if he had one, couldn’t be seen.

Before he answered, Arthur thought very carefully about the many reasons why Tristan might be interested in that. “My mother was one.”

A contemplating pause. Then Tristan squatted down by Arthur, little more than a shadow and a pair of gleams where his eyes should be. “What do they do with the bodies of their enemies? Not the ones fallen in battle. The…the ones…”

As the other man had gone directly to the point, Arthur decided it would be best if he returned the favor. “They—suicide’s something that frightens them. In the old days, they would have let him lie. But they’ve been fighting the Romans for a long time, and some of the old customs are gone because of that. They probably would’ve stripped him of anything useful and dropped the body in a…cleansing place. The river, probably.”

“Ah.” The other man moved away, depositing himself in the far corner.

“After this…we’ll hold the river again. If you’d like a party to look for the body—it might’ve washed up on shore—” Arthur began, still not able to read Tristan’s tone.

“With the spring floods? There’d be nothing worth looking for.” Shifting body, slight unbending of voice. “But thank you.”

It was said so softly Arthur almost didn’t hear. He let out a breath and released one worry, then closed his eyes and said a quick prayer. Let it be over, soon, and let there be as little loss as possible.

* * *

From his place near the end of the line, Dagonet could see the whole wagon train uncoiling like an old snake, bones groaning and creaking with age. The grass was starting to green again, but there were enough brown and grey splotches so that the similarly-colored wagons seemed to grow into the surrounding landscape.

The land on either side of the road had been cleared so the true treelines were some five hundred yards back, but some time after the initial clearing, up-keep had been allowed to lapse so there were small shrubs and saplings dotting the field nearly up to the roadside. It seemed as if the Romans had grown confident of their hold on this area.

And it was the perfect place for an ambush. Arthur had leaned out several times along the way to chat with Lancelot, so he was known to be present. They were halfway between the camp and the garrison so any riders sent for help would have a tough choice and a long, hard gallop for aid. Any Woads watching would have had more than enough time to send word to their comrades and assemble along the road, which declined and ascended in a dip that was slightly too steep for an effective repulsing charge of any kind to be marshaled in the middle. If victory was going to come, it’d be over the tops of the gentle hillocks around the area and thus be the responsibility of Paullus.

“My skin creeps.” Eyes narrowed, Bors sat a little straighter in the saddle and warily peered at the woods. “They’re there, all right.”

Dagonet nodded, though he was watching the various bushes nearer the road. “We won’t have to go far for a fight.”

The clip-clop of approaching hooves soon resolved into a tense Galahad, whose hands clenched on the reins as if he wished they were clenching something else. He had apparently overheard their conversation. “Think they’re in the trees?”

Bors started to assent, but then stopped. “Dag?”

“In the bushes.” As Dagonet whispered, something whisked through the leaves of a clump of shrubs about a hundred yards away. It could have easily been the breeze, if they’d been anywhere else.

Galahad looked approving. “That’s what Owein said. He thinks it’ll be when Arthur’s carriage hits the middle of the shallow, so get ready.”

Then the man rode further down the line, appearing to be just chatting with the rest of the knights, but from the way each knight shifted stance in the saddle, Dagonet knew otherwise.

“About time. This damn cloak’s itching.” Scratching at said garment, Bors hawked and spat at the road. They were all wrapped up in cloaks ostensibly because it was cold—and it was—but really to hide their armor and weapons. All the Woads should have been able to see was a double line of bored knights, carrying little more than a sword and perhaps a dagger, guarding a slow, lurching wagon train.

Ahead of them, Arthur’s carriage had almost reached the deepest part of the field. Dagonet reached around and wrapped his fingers around his ax. “This close, it won’t be arrows.”

“Well, they got cheated out of our skins before. Probably upset them into wanting it hand-to-hand.” Bors shrugged. “Not that I—”

All around, there was a sudden, shocking surge in green. Blue. Screaming Woads leaped out of the roadside vegetation, scaring several horses into rearing and whinnying. Through the air came the whining of arrows, which Dagonet ignored because there was a Woad trying to pike him down. He swung out his ax, ripping off his cloak in the process, and splintered off the pike-head with one blow. Then he yanked his bucking horse’s head around and forced it between Bors and the wagon, coming out behind the Woad. Another whack cleaved the man’s head in two, and the momentum of Dagonet’s stallion kept him moving so the ax whipped out covered with grayish brains.

He was already moving to take down the next Woad, who had dodged past and was struggling with the driver. Dagonet severed the Briton’s backbone and twisted around, pulling the spasming body off the driver as he did. The legionary had been stabbed, but not deeply enough to keep him from leaping down and hacking off the arm of a Woad coming up on the left.

It seemed that the arrows had all been meant for the oxen drawing the wagons, so the driver didn’t have a reason to stay put. Likewise, neither did Dagonet—the legionaries hidden within the wagon were pouring out and coming to grips with the Woads, while the knights were jumping on the horses that had been tethered to the back of the wagon. So Dagonet jerked his ax free of the corpse, blinked away the resulting spray of blood, and spurred on through the milling mass of fighting men. He wheeled and lifted his ax, then brought down the blade on another Woad skull and let the carry-through movement swing his arm up and over so it crushed the head of an attacker on the other side.

One howling mouth, brutal red in the middle of a ice-blue face, appeared directly in front of Dagonet. No time to move, so Dagonet charged straight on and deafened his ears to the way the man’s warcry squashed to a sickening gurgle. His horse stumbled and he ducked down over its neck, hissing encouragements into its mane, hoping that it hadn’t been seriously injured. He hadn’t seen what kind of weapon the Woad had been holding.

Luckily, whatever the cause of the stumble had been, it was only momentary: his stallion recovered almost immediately and lunged into another pocket of Woads, going as fiercely at the men with its front hooves as Dagonet did with his ax.

After he’d worked through that group, he found himself nearly at the middle of the train; somehow he’d galloped half its length in no more than a minute, perhaps two.

“Dag! Dag, you pigheaded son of a whore!” One Woad suddenly disappeared in a misty cloud of hot red droplets. The next moment, a corpse crashed into the nearest wagon hard enough to rock it, and Bors appeared, spinning his kukri around and around. Each blow took at least one attacker down with it. “Idiot, don’t you know better than to go running like that?”

In truth, no. His previous unit had all seemed to prefer fighting singly, and his previous commander hadn’t cared as long as they stayed close enough to hear orders. He was still trying to get used to fighting in a pair.

An unusually tall Woad rose up behind Bors. Then he fell, face split in two by Dagonet’s thrown ax.

“What’d you do before me?” Bors snorted, ripping out Dagonet’s ax. He paused to backhand a Woad before he gave it back; she shrieked and bounced off the wagon.

“Sorry.” Though there were distinct advantages to how Arthur ran his troops, and to staying near Bors.

The Woad woman rolled up onto her feet again, bloody snot dripping from a crushed nose, and went for Dagonet’s side. His ax rose and fell before he could think. Then he took a breath, flinching at the way the air rasped him.

“To your right!” A smack at Dagonet’s knee, and then Bors was ducking behind Dagonet’s horse to deal with something. Dagonet looked on the side indicated and nearly got his eye stabbed out with a spear.

He ducked so it slashed through his cheek, smacking his heels into his horse’s side at the same time. It leaped forward, partially trampling the Woad as it did, but the man still had enough strength to jab at Dagonet again. The spearhead skidded along Dagonet’s gauntlet but failed to penetrate; he twisted his hand and grabbed it while lifting his ax for a killing blow.

Before he could deliver it, the Woad was shot back by two arrows. Dagonet looked up, was momentarily dizzied by the flashing metal and red spurts, and shook his head. His vision cleared just in time for him to see some of Owein’s men coursing back and forth before the treeline, shooting as fast as they could into it.

But it wasn’t fast enough—they probably took all the archers in the trees and kept more arrows from being showered down onto the wagons, but they couldn’t stop the outpouring of Woads from the woods. As Dagonet watched, one daring Woad vaulted onto the back of a knight’s horse and flung a garrote about his neck. The pair’s fighting twisted the horse into a pack of Woads so thick the beast reared, lost its balance and fell sideways. Blood flung itself at the sky.

Trumpeting. Dagonet heard a whoosh just beneath that brassy blast and dodged another spear. He rode down another Woad, then dismounted. Well-trained, his horse had overcome its initial panic and now was bucking and kicking beside him while he wielded his ax.

The Woads were out in the open. Someone had blown the signal call. Now, all they could do was fight and wait for the rest of the army to come.

* * *

Lancelot was counting off kills since the bugle call. It was easier than trying to keep track of time, which bent in unpredictable ways during a battle. The Woads were so thick around them that he estimated he was killing one about every ten seconds.

Nearly all of the knights were down from their horses, fighting on foot with the legionaries, who honestly weren’t doing too bad. At least Paullus had picked out the better foot-sloggers, which were getting scarce on the ground; every time an infantry unit won a few battles, its commander asked for transfer elsewhere and usually got it. Whereas cavalry had to stay put, and damn that bargain Lancelot’s forefathers had made. If he could, he’d go back in time and give his ancestors a good thrashing.

Since he couldn’t, he let the Woads have it instead. A few of the knights had flipped over the wagons and were using them as shields behind which they could snipe arrows, so the Woads didn’t have the usual advantage of their archers. That left Lancelot free to move around away from the wagons, backhanding a Woad here, slashing a throat there, but he generally tried to stay near Arthur’s carriage. It wasn’t too difficult, since it seemed to be the prime target of most of the Woads.

A massed scream suddenly went up from the other side of the carriage. Something ripped Lancelot’s stomach down to his knees.

He went right, but two Woads dove at him and drove him back. Well, he could go around the other end just as easily, so he let them. Then elbowed whoever was coming up from behind him and twisted to hamstring one of the Woads. On his way to straightening up, he brought his other sword up and into the second Woad, catching the woman under the ribs. He yanked out his blade and spun to punch the first Woad into—

\--the hooves of Owein’s horse. Somehow still mounted, he kept going and jumped his stallion over the slumped bodies of the horses that had been pulling Arthur’s carriage. That had the effect of temporarily clearing the way, so Lancelot hastily followed. His boots slipped on a pile of steaming intestines—some idiot had missed and cut the gelding’s corpse open—and he had to grab one of the arrows sticking into the horse to keep his balance. Of course, there was a spearhead coming at him right then; Lancelot made a wild slash at it, barely knocked it aside and thus completely lost his balance. He went to one knee in the gore between the two dead horses. Scrambled up one, flipped his swords around and threw himself under the spear the next time it came at him. He thrust both blades in and tumbled with the Woad down the other side of the horse.

A rattling blow struck his shoulder as he landed and he lashed out with his foot. Then he got his knee up between him and the now-twitching body and shoved it away. There was blood plastering his hair to his face and blood running down his collar and blood in his mouth, but all Lancelot could do was blink fast and spit. He rolled up in time to cut down a Woad at the waist, then turned.

Arthur.

“Damn it.” Lancelot struggled to his feet, snapping his swords around both to keep off anyone tempted to take him and to fling off the accumulated gobbets of flesh on the blades. He hacked at someone and elbowed them out of the way, then ducked back as a legionary-Woad wrestling pair stumbled by and dodged through an opening in the mass.

He’d lost count, too. The last number he remembered was something around fifty.

Owein had his horse caracoling to the music of some old, iron-hard, harsh song; with every downbeat, the hooves went down and the sword twisted swiftly through another attacker. Nearby, Gawain was shouting something over the din, but the clash and reverberation of so many swords split and resplit his words into so much nonsense. And near him, Tristan was stalking through the Woads like a mountain cat. He was flicking his eyes around, assessing as if it were all some private dance just for him. Occasionally he’d select a Woad—usually the current strongman or lethal bitch around which the rest were rallying—and then there’d be no more than two strokes to send that Briton to…wherever Tristan was sending them. Lancelot hadn’t really been paying attention when Gawain had tried to explain what was going on with that man.

And frankly, he didn’t regret that. Life was short, Arthur was _fighting_ and looking too damn pale, and Lancelot was still over three yards away. He had better things to worry about.

A shout interrupted. He looked up just in time to realize he should’ve looked down, or ducked. The Woad came flying down, outstretched knife ripping down Lancelot’s front. It didn’t go through his armor, but in the subsequent tumble and thrashing his attacker got in a second jab that did slice through his leg. Snarling, Lancelot smashed a swordhilt into the bastard’s temple, then threw him into—

\--Perceval. Perceval, roaring in with his longsword scything along one side and his short one stabbing on the other. The man speared the Woad Lancelot had tossed with his longsword before charging onwards. Then Lancelot saw the uneven ranks of knights behind Perceval, and gasped his relief. The army was here.

He yanked himself back on his feet for the second time in…not a very long time. Not that it mattered, really. Ignoring the burning slicking down his leg was a little harder, but by now Lancelot was used to choking down pain.

The knights had come down first, riding from the woods to crash into the Woads’ side and rear. That trapped all the fighting between the infantry Lancelot could hear following, their march shaking the earth in perfect synchronized time, and the wagons. That meant he and Arthur were in the middle of a crowd of desperate, savage, proud Woads that were being squeezed towards them like grapes in a press.

Lancelot ducked a spear and sprinted the rest of the way to Arthur, arriving just in time to pull the man out of the way of Owein’s horse, which had gotten piked in the breast. “Idiot.”

“I was not going to stay in there where I couldn’t see,” Arthur panted, eyes fierce and unguarded with it. He was white-faced and swaying, and the pain was clearly swamping him, but he still looked like a man who could take on the world and cut it to its knees.

It wasn’t anything like the right time for it, but Lancelot’s breath caught.

Then Arthur whipped about and hacked down the Woads coming for Owein, half-trapped beneath his horse, which left Lancelot to drag the other knight free. Owein groaned and hissed, but was capable of climbing to his feet. “Broken shoulder,” he muttered, showing with his good arm that that wasn’t going to be too much of a problem.

“Fuck.” A commiserating nod, and then Lancelot was back by Arthur while Owein went off, probably after Tristan, who apparently didn’t understand that they were in a battle and not a hunt. Lancelot did his best to keep the number of men Arthur had to handle to zero, but the Woads were mobbing thicker and thicker and Paullus wasn’t driving through from the outside fast enough.

Not from lack of trying, to give the man his due. Occasionally Lancelot could get a glimpse of Paullus trying to force his horse through the roiling mass of fighting, sword beating up and down and mouth open in enraged shouting. He was driving the charge with little more than his tongue-lashing, but the Woads weren’t yielding quickly enough.

And there was blood welling out of Arthur’s sleeve. Lancelot ripped through the Woads on that side of Arthur, then pivoted and did a quick look-over. No break in the armor, so it was coming out from the inside. “Fuck. Arthur. You pulled a stitch.”

“Stitches,” Arthur corrected, wincing so hard he nearly dropped to his knee. Somehow he twisted that around into a jump onto an overturned wagon; cursing, Lancelot followed and cut down any Woad who went for Arthur.

Who was staring around, as if he had nothing better to do than sightsee. Then he stiffened. Grabbed a spear sticking from the wagon floorboards and yanked it out _with his injured arm_. His face spasmed, but he managed to stand. Even shout. “Paullus! Paullus!”

Miraculously, Paullus heard and glanced over just long enough for Arthur to throw the spear into a broken wagon two down. Then Arthur slumped against Lancelot, nearly knocking them both off, and Lancelot had to shove Arthur back. He gritted his teeth, fought down the wave of bile that rose when Arthur made a desperately pained sound, and tackled the next Woad.

Paullus saw whatever it was and began to wheel his men around, while Arthur did not go back to just killing Woads, but instead divided his strength again and slashed open a Briton from collarbone to groin while screaming for Gorlois. The knight happened to be passing nearby, and at Arthur’s call, he instantly plunged toward them. But halfway a spear caught him in the side and he went over.

Arthur cried out, something inarticulate and raging and grief-stricken. And Lancelot couldn’t do anything except kick off the Woad currently trying to stab him in the knees.

Gorlois had been a bit of a strange one—he’d been discharged and on the point of leaving Britain when Uther had died, and then the man had decided to stay. Re-enlisted under Arthur, and had been one of Arthur’s few links with his father. And a good knight, and a great fighter.

A moment of eternity later, Arthur had remembered himself and slashed away a Woad reaching for his leg. “Perceval! Swing around!”

He gestured with his sword as well, so Perceval, who clearly couldn’t hear Arthur, still got the gist of the shout. The knight promptly yanked his horse in the right direction, and Urien, even farther away, caught on and followed. Then Lancelot saw what Arthur was doing—Paullus was mired down because some clever Woads had dragged around the wagons at one end to form a makeshift fort. That way, they had something to put their backs against.

But it also had the effect of shifting the battle to just one side of the collapsed wagons. The legionaries had moved up to make sure of that, trapping all the Woads on Arthur’s and Lancelot’s side. And if the knights could circle about and take those corralled wagons from behind, then they could break the Woad line for good.

Then someone blindsided Lancelot and his thinking came to a shaking halt. He punched back, tried to swing his swords around so he could stab whomever, but his foot slipped in a puddle of something and he fell off the wagon.

Hitting the ground _hurt_. It shook him till his teeth snapped into his tongue. That pain shocked Lancelot out of his momentary daze, and then agony slammed up his leg. He channeled it into his next punch, which knocked up the Woad so the man could raise his ax.

Lancelot had dropped his one sword in the fall, and his other hand was pinned beneath the Woad’s knee. He swore and grabbed at—

\--snatched his hand back as several inches of sword burst through the center of the Woad’s chest. Then his attacker was swung off of him and a grey-faced Arthur stared wildly down at him.

One breath. Ignoring his ringing lightheadedness, Lancelot rolled over and retrieved his sword. Then he tried to stand and discovered his ankle was blown. Sprain, at the least. And the laceration from earlier was still bleeding, albeit sluggishly, which explained the reluctance of the dizziness to leave. “ _Shit_.”

“Don’t die on me.” Arthur got a hand under Lancelot’s arm and jerked him up, pushing him toward the overturned wagon so he could support himself. Whereupon Arthur, who looked as if he was going to pass out any moment, went back to fighting.

“Right.” The irony in that could wait till later to clog Lancelot’s throat. He braced himself against the planks as best he could and finished off the Woads Arthur sent his way. They were growing fewer, so hopefully that meant the battle was almost over.

* * *

Several riderless horses were running free and one nearly ran down Tristan. A hand snatched him back just in time—Owein. Then Owein was sliding past Tristan to grab at the horse’s reins. A swift leap put the man in the saddle, wincing and favoring his left arm, which was his weaker sword-arm. Not by much, since they all learned to fight ambidextrously to some degree and Owein was the best at it, but it was beginning to tell in the man’s blows.

Tristan had worked his way nearly to the end of the train, where the Woads had turned the wagon wreckage into an impromptu set of barricades. Geraint was there, blood streaming down the side of his neck from where his ear had been. He flinched when he saw Tristan, then threw himself at a Woad.

He needn’t have worried. Dinidan had been lost in Britain, not Sarmatia, and so it made more sense to kill Briton companions to the otherworld than to kill Sarmatians, however much they might deserve it. That had been the conclusion shining razor-sharp and clear in Tristan’s mind when he’d woken earlier, and that was what made him go forward now. Step up, deflect a scrawny swordsman towards another knight, and then touch blades with a tall brute of smeared blue skin and straggling brown hair. The man had seen more than one battle and gone home, for his body was as gnarled with scars as a lightning-struck tree.

He’d see no more. His blade whirled around and came low, aiming for Tristan’s belly, but tiredness slowed him. Tristan whipped about and slashed through the opening left by the strike, hitting breastbone. A twist of the wrist and his sword-tip slid down to pierce into the soft gut; the man screamed and fell backwards, freeing Tristan’s blade for him. He walked on, giving a backhand slice as he did to keep the man down.

“Tristan!” Owein snapped his head towards the other side of the wagon-circle, where thunder and dust were beginning to turn into horsemen.

They were charging the re-formed Woad lines…Tristan glanced about and saw another horse, its head cut about till it was nearly mad with the pain, galloping blindly about. But nevertheless it was moving in the right direction—away—so he ran and grabbed the saddle horn. Pushed off with his feet at the same time, mounting just before the horse broke into an uncoordinated gallop that would’ve prevented that.

Due to all the men in the way, it couldn’t go very far; he managed to jerk it about by main force just in time to see the knights slam into, tumble over the wagons. Some couldn’t leap the wreckage quickly enough, some picked too broad or too high a spot to jump. The air filled with the shrill shrieks of downed horses and the hoarser cries of frenzied men.

But enough knights rampaged through with their horses relatively unhurt to collide into the back of the Woads massed against the corral’s near side. They slowed then, but the Woads couldn’t withstand them and began to break. Flood outward, straight into the waiting blades of the rest of the army. Such as Tristan’s, after he’d gotten his horse under some control.

He was pulling his sword free of a corpse when someone roared—a Woad, blood all over, one arm laid open to the bone by a sword cut, rushing Owein with a pike. The Briton had a spear in his back and by all rights should have been dead, but he apparently still had enough life—or rage—to power one last attack.

He did lack the strength to actually strike the horse, but the sight of the pike-head was enough to spook the overwrought animal. It shrilled and reared, misstepped and came crashing down sideways, while Owein threw himself free barely in time. The man landed on his shoulder—and instantly collapsed, though there was still hard fighting all around him.

“Fuck! Come on!” Geraint ran past, smacking at the rump of Tristan’s horse as he did, and hacked at the Woads converging on the fallen knight.

Tristan blinked. Watched the vague red haze dissolve and belatedly braced himself against the _snap_ of present back into him. It wasn’t solely his war. It wasn’t a walk only he was taking. And his officer was down.

He ripped at the reins, trying to force his now-hysterical mount closer to Owein, but it was plunging about randomly, uncaring of who it struck. Deeming it a lost cause, Tristan waited till his horse blundered in the right general direction, then jumped off. He whacked at its flanks and sent it ramming into a group of Woads, then ran for Owein. Geraint was standing over him, doing the best he could to keep the Woads at bay, but by now the Britons knew they’d lost and they seemed determined to make every death count.

Owein was trying to stand, on his knees and one elbow, but whenever he tried to move further, something in him jarred his whole body into a moaning cry. And Tristan was still cutting methodically, but with an aim towards speed and not selection. Nevertheless, he was still two yards too far when a Woad leaped at Owein’s back. Time stretched—

\--slapped Tristan in the face, though he ducked in time for the Woad’s severed head to miss him. Then he had to side-step quickly back as Perceval continued to ride through—right onto a pike.

His horse skidded forward, its momentum shoving it till a foot of pole had gone into its breast. Its eyes rolled to the whites and it whinnied a final time before bucking into a heavy, earth-shaking collapse. Perceval didn’t go with it; he’d been trying to jump off and had been flung over Tristan’s head by the force of his horse’s last buck. The man went crashing to the ground a bare foot from Owein, who had taken time from struggling with his pain to look astonished. He had doubly good reason—as soon as Perceval hit the ground, a Woad pounced on him, knife flashing up and down.

Owein’s face twisted in a snarl and he suddenly pushed up, grabbing a sword from the ground. One slash and the Woad was off Perceval, and Tristan was there in time to grab Owein under the arm so he wouldn’t fall again. Blood splattered over them from a swing of Geraint’s.

“You jackass sons of bitches,” Perceval gurgled, spitting long streams of blood as he rolled himself to his feet. He swayed, clutching at the hole in his chest that sucked wetly and blew red bubbles between his fingers with every breath. “Be damned if I’d let a Briton kill you before a Sarmatian could. And be damned if I’ll owe you my life.”

He still had his sword, and with one last effort, he spun to lash a thin red line across the back of a Woad, who instantly turned. Perceval hawked up more blood into the Woad’s face as his attacker ran him through with a sword and died, still as angry and bitter as ever.

“Even trade,” Owein muttered, watching Geraint then send the Woad directly after Perceval to death. He leaned against Tristan for another moment, skin paling at a frightening rate, breath far too shallow.

Internal, Tristan thought with eerie lucidity. Something torn during the fall—maybe the first, maybe the second.

“Let me go.” Owein yanked at his arm, causing Tristan to only now notice he’d wrenched his grip tighter on it. “Let go. When it comes, you can’t stop—can only walk towards it as best you can.”

“No,” Tristan found himself saying, but his hold on Owein was already loosening. It had to; there were still Woads coming at him and it was more difficult to beat them off with only one arm free.

With a growl, Owein heaved himself free. “I want to hear a good story when I see you again. Both of you,” he hissed.

Geraint whipped around and shouted then, but Owein had already flung himself forward. The man had no sword, no daggers…he grappled with his Woad till he could fist his hands in his opponent’s hair and _twist_. The resulting snap was a good accompaniment to Owein’s subsequent collapse to the side, a long knife sticking from his chest and a faint sigh escaping from his slackening lips.

Sobbing, tears streaking his bloody cheeks, Geraint abruptly lunged for the body, but Tristan shoved him back. Had to do it with one arm, because his other was busy gutting a Woad. “Not now!”

“But—” Geraint looked as if he was going to murder Tristan.

“Not now! Not.” Tristan sucked in a breath. “Not now. Later.”

Grudgingly, angrily, reason came back into Geraint’s eyes and he nodded, returning to his fights. And Tristan continued with his, but this time he remembered to circle back every so often. Remembered that he needed to circle back, that there was something to circle back to, and that he couldn’t yet walk straight into the horizon.

Besides, all around the horizon was coming towards him. One by one, the Woads fell in flapping, twisting whirls of blue and red, like pieces ripped from the sky. And there were less and less now, and it was all Tristan could do to stand till the shower of them ended.

* * *

Gawain had to brace his arm against the saddle to keep himself from slumping over his horse’s neck. Every two or three steps, he had to cluck his tongue and tap his heels against his stallion’s ribs to keep it moving, for it was as tired and hurt as he was. But someone had to go through the battlefield’s litter of fallen, and horsemen could do it faster than Paullus’ foot-bound hospital detail.

Bedivere had borrowed a horse and was going through the other side, while Urien was back with the surgeons, struggling to breathe with three shattered ribs, and Paullus himself was having his broken arm set. It hadn’t been a particularly good day to be an officer.

“Gawain?” One hunched form rose and made a limp wave, then stumbled forward to grab at Gawain’s stirrup. “You took your time,” Galahad muttered, laying his forehead against Gawain’s shin.

It hurt to breathe. Or blink. For a moment, Gawain just had to stay there, bent over Galahad’s head so he could smell the fetid stink of slaughter coming from the man’s hair, and it was the sweetest scent in the world.

When he touched Galahad’s face, he found that the other man was trembling. But as was typical, Galahad quickly shrugged it off. He pointed behind him at two relatively able knights, who were systematically going through the Woad bodies and making certain they were all dead. “Bors and Dagonet, from Bedivere’s troop. You should see them with their axes.”

“Next time,” Gawain chuckled, though his throat was dry as the winter wind and it hurt to do so. He wanted to just go to sleep then and there, with Galahad’s curls under his hand, but there was still half a field to go through. “I need to—”

“I know. Be a little quicker about it, all right? I’m going to go see if they’ve got dinner going yet.” Galahad’s words were light, but his look was heavy and his squeeze of Gawain’s wrist seemed to brand his fingerprints into Gawain’s skin.

It’d been a massacre, Gawain saw as he moved on. The Woads had refused to surrender—the total casualties Gawain didn’t even want to guess at, so many were the bodies on the ground. But whatever the numbers were, the reality would have broken Woad power in this district for some while.

Odd, that. Whoever had commanded the initial attack on Lucius’ army and then the siege had been far more clever than this. Then again, Arthur was responsible for most of the recent Roman victories over the Woads, so maybe they’d assumed the risks were worth it to get at him.

Or maybe the Woads had the same quarreling and jealousies afflicting their high command, Gawain sourly thought. Then he shook it away, too tired for such things, and kept going, occasionally pausing to wave over a stretcher crew.

He ran into Tristan standing over Agravaine’s body. As Gawain approached, Tristan looked up. “Not my sword.”

“I…” Well, Gawain couldn’t really say anything to that except that he was relieved, and that could be read easily enough from his face. So he didn’t say anything.

“Perceval and Owein are both dead,” Tristan added. The set of his shoulders was exhausted, but his gaze was clear and comprehending and calm, as if he’d learned everything he’d ever need to know and was content with that. He looked past Gawain, raised his arm—

\--and his hawk alighted softly on it, cooing to him.

“I’m sorry.” Gawain tried to pull himself a little straighter in the saddle.

“For which?” Black humor briefly colored Tristan’s face, but then he turned away. “It doesn’t matter. They’re all beyond us now.”

He sounded just a little too serene for Gawain. “But you’re staying here.”

“I…am.” And now Tristan’s hand faltered before petting his hawk in long, smooth strokes. His head was slightly inclined so Gawain couldn’t see his expression, but his voice sounded human for a moment, and not merely soldierly. “I have business still to see to.”

That seemed to be as good an answer as Gawain was going to get, so he accepted it and went on.

Lancelot was sitting with Arthur’s head in his lap, and for a nasty second Gawain nearly thought—but Lancelot looked irritated and worried and resigned, and not as if he were about to break, and with himself break the rest of the world.

“He passed out again,” was Lancelot’s laconic answer to Gawain’s inquiry. “But the bleeding’s already stopped, and he’s breathing fine. Still, such an idiot.”

Gawain motioned quickly for the nearest stretcher, and snapped at them to hurry when they seemed reluctant to traverse all the intervening corpses. “And what about you?”

“I need a fucking crutch.” Lip curling at himself, Lancelot seemed about to expand on that, and at great vitriolic length, but at the last moment he decided otherwise. He sighed and looked at Arthur, fingers gently touching Arthur’s slack, peaceful face. “So?”

Before Gawain replied, he got the attention of a second stretcher crew. Then he turned back to Lancelot, squinting at the man with burning, strained eyes. “So we won. Completely. Crushed the whole Woad army, probably settled everything for the rest of the campaigning season. Ambrosius is overjoyed.”

“I’ll be sure to let Arthur know when he wakes up.” Another, more mocking look at Gawain. “So?”

“A third of the knights are down, either dead or wounded. Infantry had less casualties, but still bad. And everyone lost a lot of officers,” Gawain murmured. His head was too damned heavy and he couldn’t hold it up any longer, so he laid down on his horse’s neck. Only for a moment, he warned himself.

Unsurprised and bitter about it, Lancelot nodded. “Promotions and burials a-plenty when we get back to the garrison.”

“We’re alive.” Gawain told himself to remember that. “We’re alive.”


	7. Elegy

Looking fond and foolish about it, Bors ruefully rubbed his cheek. “Hey, love.”

“You missed Seven’s first walk, you great lump.” A red-haired, generously-curved woman that could only be Vanora stood with hands on hips and glared at Bors. She stayed stiff even as he chuckled and caught her about the waist, pulling her close. Only when he started nibbling on her neck did she finally give in to the relieved smile making her mouth twitch.

All around them, a pack of children ranging from the newborn cradled on Vanora’s back to the stout seven- or eight-year-old peeking from her skirts stared curiously at Dagonet. He knelt down so he was eye-to-eye with one little girl that had her mother’s looks and her father’s pugnacious chin.

“You’re taller than Daddy,” she accused, poking her doll at him.

“Yeah, Dag’s a big one.” Bors smacked Vanora on the cheek and clasped Dagonet’s shoulder. He shared a look with Vanora, who at first seemed a bit wary, but then she saw something that reassured her and smiled down. “He’s been upriver—doesn’t know this garrison. Mind if we bring ‘m to dinner?”

Vanora sighed and cuffed Bors, but her expression was indulgent. “Might as well—earth and sky know that I cook for an army anyway. I think there’s room for him.”

The girl, meanwhile, had progressed to fingering the studs of Dagonet’s jerkin. He let her continue to explore as he picked her up and followed the rambunctious mob that was Bors and Vanora’s family. As they wove their way through the garrison, a woman with a long yellow plait and a pleasant-looking face put down her water-jar to smile at Dagonet. He blinked, momentarily unsure, and she laughed a little.

This time, he wasn’t rude. He smiled back, and still smiling, he followed his friend.

* * *

There were fingers petting Galahad’s bare back. Normally he wouldn’t mind, but he was fresh from the bathhouse and full of decent food, and he didn’t want to be distracted from his goal of falling asleep as quickly as possible. He batted at the hand, but it merely moved to wander beneath the sheets over his hips. Maybe he should’ve gone to bed dressed after all, though all of his clothes were stiff with dried blood and he hadn’t had the energy to clean them. Mopping-up of the river campaign had taken two fucking weeks, and they’d been so short-handed that he hadn’t gotten any more sleep than before the Woad rebellion had been crushed.

“Stop that,” Galahad grumbled, chewing on the pillow. He tried to press his legs together and squirm away from the now-decidedly teasing fingers. “Too damned tired.”

“Never thought I’d see the day where _you_ said that,” Gawain laughed, nuzzling the back of Galahad’s neck. He smelled different. Nicer. Not…bloody and dirty.

And he sounded much less tense; Galahad grudgingly rolled over and pulled the other man in, wrapping himself around Gawain before those hands could get any more of his attention. He did allow himself to be tugged into a long, deep, unhurried kiss, since they finally had their own room again and could lock the door. Then Galahad tucked his head beneath Gawain’s chin, letting Gawain stroke all he wanted, but not really reacting. It was too comfortable how they were, and if Galahad managed to keep hold this way, then there would be no knees poking him awake in the middle of the night.

“Strange things happen during war. Now shut up and let me sleep. Can fuck me tomorrow morning.” Galahad closed his eyes and listened to Gawain’s breathing slow.

Just when he thought Gawain had drifted off, the other man pressed his lips to the top of Galahad’s head. “Tomorrow,” Gawain murmured, making it sound like a vow.

* * *

Tristan sat cross-legged on the mound, feeling the moisture of the freshly-overturned earth gradually soak through his clothing. His hawk had long since tired, so he’d left her behind in the barracks and hurriedly departed the over-large room. Curiously enough, she hadn’t protested his exit, unlike on previous days.

“From those whom you made your sons,” Geraint whispered. Then he leaned forward and spilled the cup of wine over the top of Owein’s sword so the fragrant stuff sluiced and sprayed all about, flicking a few drops Tristan’s way. “To a better hunt.”

“To a better tale.” When all the wine had been drunk by the earth, Tristan got up and stood by the other man. Behind them were the few other members left of their troop, each murmuring their own message.

After a few moments, they began to drift away, all except for Geraint and Tristan. The other man still looked apprehensive enough, but he didn’t flinch from Tristan’s gaze.

“They’ll take either of us as the new head.” Geraint was absently fingering that dark brown lock of hair, as he usually did when nervous. He made a slight gesture with his hands. “Do you…”

“No. You can have it. I’ve…asked to transfer to Gawain—he’s handling Perceval’s old troop.” Tristan allowed a bit of wolf-grin to show.

And Geraint produced his own, appreciating the sentiment. “We are fewer, but not enough for them to forget who we are.” But then he looked solemn again, almost pained. “I am sorry.”

It still hurt enough for Tristan to have to close his eyes. But he opened them soon enough, choosing to look on the graveyard with its ranks of swords and then beyond to the bright bustle of the garrison, to the dark solidity of the wall, to the fringe of treeline menacing over the top of it. As he’d told Gawain, he had business to carry out here, and now for the sake of two others.

“I know.” Tristan stayed a moment longer, then headed back to the stables with Geraint. He had a horse to tend, blades to sharpen and armor to clean. There was work to be done.

* * *

Lancelot gasped and flung his arm over his mouth, biting deep into the muscle to keep from moaning too loudly. His eyes drifted shut, but he willed them to open again so he wouldn’t miss any more of this than he had to. He got little enough of it as it was.

Another slow, straining thrust and Arthur was deep into Lancelot, breath coming now in short pants that pattered like so many teasing fingers over Lancelot’s face. Then Arthur hissed, abruptly dropped to his elbows and pressed his forehead against Lancelot’s chest.

Concerned, Lancelot pried his arm from his mouth and propped up the other man as best he could, trying to keep the strain off Arthur’s still-healing shoulder. He ran a palm gently up Arthur’s back, checking the wounds there, while Arthur struggled to breathe. “Arthur?”

“Give me a—never mind.” And then Arthur was rearing up again to snatch Lancelot’s mouth with his own, devouring Lancelot’s sense, and his hands were pressing Lancelot’s to the bed while he twisted and pushed and rammed all the sound out of Lancelot.

Voiceless, breathless, Lancelot tried to wrap his legs around Arthur’s waist and urge him down, but his bad ankle protested. He winced and inadvertently shoved his hips down at the same that Arthur’s went up—Lancelot’s neck jerked up, slammed his head back into the bed. His knees went slack as cut strings and flopped aside, jarring his ankle again but he could hardly care when Arthur was ravaging him from the inside out. Tongue in mouth, prick in ass, all plunging and scraping till Lancelot was raw and burning and limp with it, being dragged back and forth over the rumpled wet morass of sheets by Arthur’s movements.

He tried to swallow, found himself spitting out an exhale instead that sounded vaguely pleading. Lancelot got an arm up and caught his fingers in Arthur’s hair, pulling the man down so Lancelot could lick the sweat dripping from Arthur’s jaw, acquire some moisture that way. It wasn’t enough to soothe his parched throat, and certainly wasn’t enough to do anything against the scorch rising from his aching, hungry insides up through his head. His knees banged against Arthur’s sides because Lancelot couldn’t even control his legs any more—Arthur winced but turned it into another fierce kiss and drew blood between them.

So Lancelot swiped it away with his tongue, drank it deep until there was none left and he had to drink Arthur’s breath instead. And he drank that, moaning and whimpering and clutching, till even that was gone and nothing was left except an explosive hollowing-out that went through Arthur, shaking him in Lancelot’s arms, into Lancelot because he always took what Arthur did. He had long since lost the taste for anything else.

They slumped into the bed. It took three breaths before Arthur could lift his head, five before he could ease himself out of Lancelot. Twenty before Lancelot could do more than curl over Arthur and trace just-healed scars with lips and fingertips.

But when he rose to dress, Arthur laid a palm flat between Lancelot’s shoulderblades and pushed him back down. Then Arthur got out of bed himself and staggered over to the door, against which they’d just shoved a chair and trusted that everyone would be busy settling back into garrison life.

Lancelot rolled over—winced and cursed his stupid ankle—and watched with growing confusion as Arthur removed the chair and locked the door. “What if someone comes screaming in with news?”

“Then they can shout it through the door.” Arthur paused with hand on latch, then left it bolted and came back to bed. He drew soft fingers down the side of Lancelot’s face, his eyes again filled with that new, strange, sad determination. “If I accomplish anything in this life, it’ll be to see you safe and unhurt.” Then he grinned, but the shadow of that distant leaving still lingered. “Anyway, this’ll save you from the embarrassment of limping back to your room.”

“I think I was a much nicer nurse,” Lancelot grumbled, dragging Arthur back into bed. 

It wasn’t the end of the conversation—Arthur’s words and tone and face were too disturbing—but for the moment, Lancelot was willing to let matters lie in favor of savoring what small victories could be won in the midst of the bloody tumult of their lives. 

And, he told himself, he would not see Arthur broken by command. If _he_ could accomplish anything during his life, it would be that.


End file.
